


future has two wednesdays

by pixiepuff (colourmecrunchy)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I mean EXPLICIT GAPS, M/M, also 6000 years of god facepalming herself into a coma, and crowley perpetually wondering who the bigger moron is, and when I say gaps, bonus: mildly-inconvenienced Shakespeare and Bentley, ineffable idiots across the ages - and I filled in some gaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 20:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourmecrunchy/pseuds/pixiepuff
Summary: Crowley never expected to see somebody so well-meaning and genuinely too innocent to notice he got himself dirty, piss against the wind and giggle while doing it.It was adorable. It was surprising. It was a curiosity, and Crowley had a mighty need.(Also, the guy was rubbish at small talk.)ORHe just really needed to get drunk.What hedidn’tneed was an angel in a toga looking alarmingly excited after recognizing him.(But then Aziraphale, a Dithering Angel,theDithering Angel unknowingly did something absolutely obscene while trying to teach Crowley how tosuck an oyster dryin one go, and something in him justs n a p p e d. Like a dry branch. A brittle bone. A twisted mind, prone to madness.)





	future has two wednesdays

**Author's Note:**

> Adding screenshots because I finally watched the damn thing. As a fan of the book for years and years, I was worried, but fuck I was worried for nothing because they did a fantastic job. I am in love. IN LOVE.
> 
> For Gigi, as always. ♥

Bentley jump-started into awareness with a loud, erratic purr, the only way old-timers of the sort could – with coughing and trembling, their power and non-environmental-friendly heat exhaustion giving the metallic body both a soul and a ticking clock of an untimely expiration date.

(Only well-executed and placed miracles could save them, in the end.)

The thermal flask and its invaluable contents rolled from one side to the other, connecting with Crowley’s boot. He tried to ignore it the best way he could, which was not at all, and then some.

Crowley always thought he was a pretty reasonable sort.

For a demon. For a has-been angel. For an _utter moron_, anyway.

He left Soho behind, his body so effectively moving away, but the thoughts stayed right there, on the pavement in front of Aziraphale’s shop no matter how hard Crowley tried to strap them in, like a disobedient child in a child’s seat, kicking and yelling that they have to turn around because the most beloved toy had been left at home.

And, yes. Matching Aziraphale to a toy was not fair. It was wrong to diminish people to the level of objects, it was wrong because toys silently screamed Fun Times which were lately not had – in abundance, and it was wrong mostly because it was the other way around.

Crowley groaned. Tool, or a Toy. That’s what he was to Hell or Heaven, respectively.

The Arrangement™.

Their _fucking _arrangement.

One of the most brilliant ideas he’s ever had, honestly, right up there with M25 or creating Manchester, or even that one time that couldn’t _really_ count as Inconveniencing the Masses to Entertain the Devil, but it did Entertain One Demon, so in the end, Crowley thought it had served the purpose anyway – he had bewitched a group of eager butterflies to follow Aziraphale around for the entire day, thinking he’s going to cause huffing and spluttering that was always, always so validating to observe, but just like the rest of these Brilliant Ideas it kind of backfired because a) no huffing and spluttering occurred at all, b) Crowley had felt none of the usual wicked validation, and c) Aziraphale was actually so fucking flustered and pleased to have his own attaché of pretty little insects surrounding him like a very, _very_ ridiculous aura that he cancelled all of his plans, and had spent the day traipsing around the parks grinning like a madman instead, with Crowley watching (from a safe distance) with an unhinged jaw, ready to throw himself down a ditch or an elevator shaft or a canyon, whichever was closest by.

Don’t get him wrong. There were, generally speaking, undeniable and beneficial gains and perks of their agreement:

Not having to work so hard anymore, for one. It was uncanny how often the tails side of the coin favoured him when they flipped it. Crowley was never an actual workaholic to begin with unlike some other demons he knew; he was much more content with stirring the pots and planting dissent every few decades, but whenever Aziraphale lost the proverbial bet and had to do the tempting instead of him, Crowley ended up having even more invaluable free time on his hands.

Being thoroughly and atrociously entertained whenever they met and compared notes, for another. Even if Crowley in theory already knew what went down, because. _Because_. It was rather impossible to put his finger on it to understand all the hows and the whys, and frankly, Crowley has never really tried (ignorance is bliss, don’t you know, this one was one of Crowley’s, now you know who to hate for it), but even if he won a coin toss and was thus free to do whatever the fuck he wanted, no tasks in sight, no plotting or supplanting or thwarting or corrupting on the agenda, he _still_ couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t stay away, instead of taking the day off he _followed_ Aziraphale around to see how he’d manage and handle the assignments and projects that perhaps really _were_ for someone beneath his station.

To this day, and it’s been over half a millennia, Crowley still almost snorted himself a third nostril, remembering how Aziraphale lost a coin toss to perform a simple task of tempting a clan chief of Scottish highlands into stealing cattle and maybe starting a ruse with other neighbouring clans, but instead accidentally ended up talking the guy into taking one of competitor clan’s cows as his fifth wife.

But, _and there was always a but_, all these benefits and being relieved of duty and enjoying himself immensely came with repercussions and side-effects, some which Crowley intended and expected, and some that crept up on him without a warning – or an instruction manual.

(Hence the previously-mentioned moron part.)

But to make all of this a bit clearer, and not only the part about the city of Manchester, whose name remained a well-guarded secret Crowley would carry for the rest of eternity, even if under pain of torture, never admitting to a single soul to having been inspired by his desires of wanting to get thoroughly, _in the biblical sense_, acquainted with a certain _angelic_ _upper body_, he had to go a bit further back.

**Like a Lead Balloon **

** **

The Complete Beginning was perhaps the only time in the history of _entire_ _history_ when Crowley considered Aziraphale a bigger moron than himself.

(And not even for the sword thing. That part was actually ingenious, and Crowley wished he’d been the one to think of it and orchestrate it, and tempt the angel to do it – but, alas, he had to give credit where credit was due, and not steal anyone else’s laurels to rest upon.)

Why was Aziraphale a moron, you ask?

Because the guy fidgeted. _Fidgeted_. A fucking full-blown Principality, and if anybody wasn’t up to speed with Celestial Hierarchy, Aziraphale wasn’t just an angel, all right, he was an angel that could _pull rank_ and have other angels nod and scatter to do his bidding (if only his face hadn’t worked in the exact opposite way), he was _clearly_ someone capable of astonishing miracles and deeds (Crowley watched him, first because he was bored and then because he was kind of, maybe, slightly, just a little bit in bloody _awe_ how somebody so gullible and clueless had the knack to potter around Eden and create so much beauty and still remain oblivious to his own accomplishments), he was somebody who was given an incredibly powerful weapon, and no, Crowley yet again wasn’t referring to the damn sword, he was talking about those Piercing Blue Eyes of his; Aziraphale, on top of everything else, was somebody who was titled Angel of the Eastern Gate – and, do you know how many Gates existed? Four. _Four_ bloody doors, one for each cardinal wind direction, and the angel was one of the four appointed gatekeepers. Out of _countless_ angel flock. It was, all in all, an impressive amount of titles and talents that should speak for themselves, but what got Crowley sold on the guy in the end was that he was actually somebody who was not supposed to defy orders, somebody who should not even question them, somebody who was given free will but was expected not to exercise it too often and follow stern rules instead, but because Aziraphale was also somebody who listened to his consciousness and heart, he Disregarded His Superiors just like Crowley had once had.

Crowley never expected to see somebody so well-meaning and genuinely too innocent to notice he got himself dirty, piss against the wind and giggle while doing it.

It was adorable. It was surprising. It was a curiosity, and Crowley had a mighty need.

Also, the guy was rubbish at small talk.

Or projecting any kind of a tranquil, angelic atmosphere.

It was such a messy, chaotic package it was impossible to stay away.

Aziraphale was rubbish at the things he was literally _created for_, so how exactly was Crowley the one, or the only one of the two who ended up Falling was so fucking beyond him he remained on the wall firstly out of spite, standing next to the angel and daring the Almighty to notice and smite him for the second time, and only secondly because he suddenly realized, shock and wonder in equal amounts, that this babbling, fidgeting Menace was actually _interesting as hell_ (_way_ more interesting than Hell, if he were honest, which he wasn’t, not yet) , ending up chatting to the angel for what was probably like a week straight.

Time was a funny concept if its passing affected neither of the parties, but even if it had, Crowley was sort of transfixed and suspended in time and space how somebody who perpetually bounced on the balls of his feet and wrought his hands, arms, _whole body_ in infinite doubt, wound tighter than Adam when he first realized Eve was Naked™, managed to even _survive_, so walking away and leaving the moron on his own felt like an utterly wrong thing to do.

And then, to drive one of these points home, Crowley wasn’t entirely sure which one, the angel shielded him from a storm without pausing or re-considering or hesitating. His wing went up and above Crowley’s head and it stayed there, and Crowley was kind of impressed how they were both fully aware of the fact that Crowley could keep himself dry with his own wings – they may have been black now but they were still fully functional – but were both playing along in a mutual agreement of disregarding that one insignificant, major fact. (In hindsight, Crowley realized they had _all_ the predispositions of two idiots who were exceptionally good at working together for a common cause.)

It was outrageous as much as it was astonishing, and it had to be pondered upon and dissected into prime numbers further, but the pondering and dissecting had to happen at a neutral place the angel did not inhabit, just so Crowley could actually get some uninterrupted thinking done – so he, at some point, managed to clear his throat and excuse himself, slithering away .

**Oi, Shem**

** **

One thousand years later was the very first time Crowley was disappointed in the angel.

It felt odd and downright false, as if Crowley actually believed angels, or perhaps just this one, could do no wrong, as if Aziraphale disappointing him was more a flaw of Crowley’s than anyone else’s, but being the more upset party of the two over God deciding to kill a bunch of children who didn’t deserve Her Wrath _definitely_ caused a paradigm shift in Crowley. Good and bad have never looked more grey before. More lukewarm than hot or cold. More stale than fresh or rotten.

If an _angel_ didn’t seem to be too phased out over all this, accepting and justifying the genocide by saying there will be a spectacular Rain Bow afterwards, _as if that made it okay_, then why was Crowley taking everything so personally? Why was he so affronted? As a _demon_, no less? Death and destruction were on his CV now, along with _fluent in falling and serpent speech_, he was supposed to be revelling in all this, and the fact that he wasn’t made him wonder if they didn’t maybe accidentally forget to remove some of his predetermined traits after he took his little tumble from Heaven.

Was it because on some really deep, still-attached level, the kids and him had something in common, unknowingly bonding over their fate, the protective power casting all of them out and very obviously not giving a shit what happened to them in the aftermath? Was it because the children, too, were painfully vulnerable in their belief that things were fine only to have a very rude awakening thrust upon them? Was it because Mister Eastern Gate, for all his holy nature and Curls™ to go with it, threw words like _Plan_ and _Ineffable_ around as if a person was never supposed to wonder and doubt and touch and ask and ask and _ask? _

_ _

Crowley suspected the angel might be upset beneath all that bluffing and pretension, he suspected the angel was even more nuanced than he has had the opportunity to uncover so far, it must have been like one of those trees in the Garden, beautiful, twisting, reaching, _blooming_ branches that looked like a grid of paths crossing and turning and retreating and promising a reward if one managed to navigate the maze properly – but Crowley refused to yield or bring himself to sympathise with the angel’s potential internal suffering because _choosing_ not to show it made all the difference in the world.

This time around, when the rain began to fall and the rest of the observers dispersed to look for useless shelter (but they didn’t know that, did they, doomed to perish and nowhere to go), Aziraphale’s wings didn’t unfold and reach up and shield him. Crowley supposed he could return the favour, meet the angel half-way after their bickering at the foot of that Travelling ZOO, but a small part of him wanted the angel to feel the punishment of the rain before being awarded with a rainbow for all his _troubles_.

**All the Kingdoms of the world**

Crowley never attended these.

It was another thing the Upstairs cooked up that he found despicable and cruel, and yes, what he called home now was just as despicable and cruel, no one was disputing that, him the least of all, but the point was everyone _expected_ Hell to be like that. Nobody expected Heaven to kill so many in so many lucrative, slow, painful ways. Illicit, intricate torture was reserved for the worst of humanity by the demon-kind, and it baffled Crowley that Heaven would be _so_ onboard for dragging out death instead of finishing people off with at least a little bit of mercy.

As it was, the only mercy that the poor sods on the crosses were actually given was whenever Crowley managed to sneak in hours before the crucifixion, bringing them just enough alcohol or opiates to make them stop caring about what will happen next.

Even the ones that probably deserved to endure the punishment sober.

And then there was the angel again, always there, always present at uncomfortable events that Crowley wanted to avoid, standing, watching, frowning – _sure_, he was frowning, he was frowning so hard you could hardly see the blue of his eyes, which was a small relief for Crowley as if he was granted this curious clemency that should have been reserved for one of the guys on the cross, but Aziraphale still just stoically existed there with a carefully controlled face, and there was some poetry in Aziraphale existing in the spot between the onlookers and the people getting their extremities pierced with nails, dividing them and belonging to neither; he looked unwavering and undoubting even then, and this time, this time Crowley almost didn’t walk up to him to say hello.

But as if he somehow Couldn’t Fucking Help Himself despite wanting to turn his back to the whole ordeal in front of him, and not just because the man they were desecrating at the moment just wanted everyone to get along, Crowley ended up moving forward anyway, taking one slow, deliberate step after another, begrudgingly pausing next to what was indisputably the brightest thing in entire Jerusalem. And no, he did not mean Jesus.

On top of everything, Crowley felt quite guilty, unable to get to the guy the night before with some wine for the road.

From closer up and after a quick inspection, Aziraphale had the decency to look a smidgeon less self-assured than in Eden or in Mesopotamia, finally showing at least some fleeting sadness if not actual horror at the prospect and sight of occupied crosses being erected in the dying light of the day.

Crowley found himself angry that they turned the crosses away from the sun, not affording the sorry bastards even one last exquisite view of the world they were leaving.

Still, the way Aziraphale flinched alongside Crowley at the sound of the thick, rusty nails being hammered home, the way he stepped a bit closer when it was done, the way his mouth formed a miserable frown and his eyes cast downwards, as far from proud as the prisoners were from salvation, had caused something to finally loosen in Crowley. Before Crowley joined him the angel had kept himself in check. It was as if Crowley’s presence made Aziraphale see some things clearer, and it was almost hard to believe that instead of mucking up the pristine waters his proximity drove the existing murk away. (Wasn’t _he_ the dirty, sullied, besmirched one here?)

Angels were an odd bunch, but it seemed like one of them managed to preserve a heart, and Crowley instantly forgave him for ever frustrating or disappointing him.

**An aardvark?**

** **

The crosses were still in full force. Crowley hasn’t been Downstairs since it all began, not wanting to expose himself to the tarnished basement of putrid air and flickering lights, but going North-West for a change of scenery didn’t prove to do much for his general well-being either.

They had crosses there, too.

_And_ amphitheatres.

It was all backwards here, he mused darkly, because surely there must have been angels present in Rome? And angels were supposed to love people and shelter them, not leave them to be torn apart by beasts, and this was what was wrong and upside-down as well – Crowley was indescribably saddened by the fact that one of his most glorious creations was being used for the means of carnage and destruction. He created cats, big and small, right after he was done creating the stars, exhilarated and amazed by what an active imagination was capable of. It often made him think of Aziraphale and his tinkering around Eden, his quaint and quiet and unassuming nature painting the garden with new beautiful creations. Creations that were safe and sound and heavily-guarded.

His own creations, meanwhile, at least the earthly ones, were being destroyed in some horrific dance duet, because humans in the arena were given weapons, such as they were, to fight back, and it was too much, all of it was too much, listening to the screaming of both humans and beasts alike, and it was slowly starting to do Crowley in.

He just really needed to get drunk.

What he _didn’t_ need was an angel in a toga looking alarmingly excited after recognizing him.

He didn’t need an angel in a toga looking alarmingly _anything_, the blue of his eyes very much unobscured by yellow sun and crucifixion this time around much to Crowley’s general disapproval, but the universe had a very odd sense of humour, adding the angel to the evening’s cake mix, so Crowley just sighed inwardly and let the fate happen.

Ironically enough – he shouldn’t even be surprised at this point, really – what he had _no fucking idea_ he needed more than he needed anything else in existence, was the angel in question giving a shy, uncertain smile, so bloody innocent in his presumption, his buoyancy addictive, so bloody useless at small talk, uttering words that _literally tempted a demon_. The sheepish, bashful coyness that followed, as if Aziraphale knew he should be regretting what he said but couldn’t bring himself to because it wasn’t true, was the best thing Crowley had ever seen, really, right up there along with the iridescent stars and feline gracefulness, so he did what any self-respecting moron would in his shoes, disregarding propriety and their respective realms, and followed the angel’s lead to wherever the fuck the angel has decided to go.

The entire evening, Aziraphale was chattering away like all the rest of the well-meaning, gossipy old ladies of the world whom Crowley secretly adored to death itself, but would rather be caught with his hand in God’s cookie jar than admit it out loud, telling Crowley about the places he visited and the people he’s met, waving for order after order of oysters until Crowley was pretty sure the wretched things have passed out of existence. The oysters didn’t impress him much, very rarely _any_ food had, but he was more than content in trying to reach the proverbial bottom of the wine cellar somewhere a floor down, below their feet instead.

But then Aziraphale, a Dithering Angel, _the_ Dithering Angel unknowingly did something absolutely obscene while trying to teach Crowley how to _suck an oyster dry_ _in one go_, and something in him just _s n a p p e d_. Like a dry branch. A brittle bone. A twisted mind, prone to madness.

He had no idea if it was the alcohol, or if he was just so full of pent-up energy from watching and listening to violence and feeling useless in the aftermath, but something spurred him on, maybe even the very basic awareness of how he suddenly felt not-so-numb anymore just by being in Aziraphale’s presence. It didn’t change much outside of Crowley himself, the world around them was just as incompetent as before, but it did appear brighter in little sporadic bursts, Aziraphale’s golden brooch of a pair of wings hypnotising Crowley by catching and reflecting light one time too many in just the right sequence and repetition, but there you have it, a demon has _had_ it, so he groaned, not unlike the angel earlier when devouring an oyster, and dragged a sputtering, protesting Aziraphale out of the tavern into the adjacent alley.

“What in God’s nam-”

Crowley waved him quiet, pacing in a circle just like his beloved caged tigers in the basements beneath the colosseum.

He was surprised that it worked, but he couldn’t decide what he liked more, the angel so strangely obedient – not in general, just when it came to Crowley, or when he talked back.

“Don’t you ever get _tired_,” he prodded, just to spur him back into speaking, even if he literally told him to shut up mere moments ago.

“Goodness, what brought all this on?”

“Or were you literally blessed by _eternal chirpiness?”_

“Crowley.”

“Thanks for the Oyster Workshop, _angel_, but I’m-”

Crowley trailed off as Aziraphale’s cheeks puffed out in annoyance, his lips pursing, but then he cocked his head to the right as if something occurred to him, and fuck, Crowley felt weird and spun off-axis, he was entirely off-kilter, he should finish his thought but this was entertaining to watch, so he focused. Why did he ever think Aziraphale was good at keeping a mask on, if he now found him so easy to read? Was it alcohol, in copious amount on both sides? If Crowley entertained the idea of knowing Aziraphale at all, he’d say there was some additional fluster and blushing being added to the initial, wine-induced splotches on his face.

“Are you trying to use my nature as an insult?”

“It was an emphasis, it’s called accentuating the most important information in a sentence, look it up.”

He wasn’t even entirely sure why he wanted to start an argument in a poorly-lit alley, a useless verbal scuffle with no real heat behind it.

“What?”

“I said-”

“I’m the most important thing in a sentence?”

_What?_

“No?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

“So what _were_ you trying to emphasize, then, demon?”

“Oh, look, yeah, see, who is doing it now?”

“How did we go from enjoying ourselves to _this_?”

How, indeed? Crowley shrugged and sighed, and let his head fall back against the wall with a thunk, the hit muffled by ivy branches that were creating their own little merry tapestry and were completely ignorant of an angel and a demon playing imaginary chess nearby, both of them totally sucking at it. He was hoping the world might stop spinning, not just from all the alcohol but pretty much in general, or at least slowing down enough for him to figure out why this hasty escape from the Oyster Hell was so sorely needed, and what was happening in his head at the moment that made him act this way, and why was he so hell-bent (ha!) on finally carrying out an argument that must have been festering in them for, uhhh, around 4 thousand years, now?

Neither the wall nor the ivy offered any help whatsoever, and Aziraphale pretty much just added to his trauma by stepping closer, his annoyance visibly giving way to worry for Crowley’s sudden silence.

Crowley felt all fight drain from him in the wake of all this attention. Sometimes the angel’s face allowed more than just his default half-smile, the smile that clearly showed how its owner thought not a thing was out of place in the world since it was created, but when Aziraphale was worried, _especially_ when he was worried, there was all the fidgeting and exasperation on display, but what was even better were all the emotions, and they would show in his furrowed brow and squinted eyes and the curve of his mouth and, and _fuck_, Crowley maybe really didn’t have to empty the wine cellar just because he was going through a rough patch.

“I called you an angel because you are good at, at. At _that_.”

He had no idea if he was going for an elaborate apology or a confusing explanation, but whatever it was he hoped it didn’t sound as lame as he felt while saying it.

“I am good at being an angel.”

“_Clearly_.”

“Meaning?”

Crowley, his head still cradled against the wall, raised his eyebrows because what a stupid question, this should be self-explanatory, did they actually forget to install some intelligence in this guy at the creation stage, so he lifted a hand and gestured vaguely at the whole of Aziraphale.

“You never get dirty, do you? Heaven does shitty things, but you remain unspoiled. I did shitty things _in_ Heaven, and got cast out, spoiled to the very core. Heaven supports and allows dirty deeds, sometimes even instigates them, and while I disagree with a negative act, I remain spoiled, but you’re still clean. You _deflect_ soil. You’re _judgment-repellent_. You shine like a beacon of fucking hope, and they even gave you a brooch to go with it. Golden wings for the golden one. Angel through and through.”

Aziraphale slowly looked down at the decorative brooch that was holding the toga in place, he was now worried _and_ confused, Crowley making him change expressions and moods faster than some Romans around them changed sexual partners, and then he looked back up again, his throat constricting slowly around a swallow, and then around one single word.

“_Crowley_.”

“No, no. S’fine. You can go back inside to, I don’t know, inspire the masses, or something, have an oyster-eating competition, show them how it’s done. Show them like you showed me, I can vouch for you, it looked super effective. I’m done for tonight. With Rome in general, possibly.”

He was being a little shit, Crowley knew, okay, he did, but earlier Aziraphale did ask if he was _still a demon_, as if this was something Crowley could control, as if he was even able to control _becoming_ one, as if labels like that were everything there was to know about someone, and Aziraphale threw labels around in his privileged nonchalance for someone thoroughly befitting his rank, and holy Heaven _and_ Hell, right now his eyes were

_too open _

_too blue_

_too close_.

Crowley had no idea who started kissing whom first.

He was drunk just enough to consider the whole thing _ineffable_, and then he almost snorted right in the fucking mouth of an angel because that was one word he has vowed to never _ever_ use, and here he was, planting it square onto Aziraphale, and clearly he was out of his fucking mind because instead of pulling back and scowling at himself and the universe at large like a sensible little demon, his body has taken control, foregoing the glaring and disapproving and jumping straight to kissing the bloody angel back.

And.

Fuck.

Kissing, as it turned out, was a great deal better than drinking, or drinking and watching somebody else drink, or drinking and watching somebody else drink watching _you_ drink, and it was soft and sweet and _wet_, and Crowley sighed and sagged a little, wondering who would volunteer to keep him up, the wall or the angel – his money was on the wall, but then Aziraphale’s arms snuck around him, pinning him against the wall, holding him in place, and Crowley gasped his surprise against that sweet point of contact between their lips that felt alarming, like the apex of a dagger, the singularity of all focus, and the bizarre and also slightly incredible thing about it was that it. Just. Kept. Going.

They didn’t need air, and it _showed_. Crowley wondered how lucky humans were, needing to come up for air, because taking a breather, literally and figuratively, helped them assess the situation and weigh some options around, maybe throw up some doubt and pride and bashfulness, whereas _they_ didn’t really need to stop, so they didn’t. He wanted to see why holding someone was so special, so his arms slipped around Aziraphale and up his back, the fabric of the toga coarse but quite thin under his touch, feeling the heated skin beneath.

_Skin_.

Satan on a stick, Aziraphale had _skin_. It was warmer than a summer’s night in this wondrous city, moving under the fabric like the earth’s mantle moved under the crust, super-heated and beautifully solid, and it was impossible to tell where the trembling came from.

Crowley chanced bunching up some fabric in his grip, pulling it taut against the front, and _this_ he knew how to do, getting his fists in someone else’s shirt, even if he only ever did that in a setting of a quarrel or a rescue, but it made Aziraphale gasp, he gasped and Crowley, for the first time ever, felt that soft exhale of warm air against his mouth, a direct, positive result of something he did, and it was so daunting and incredible he just kept going, gathering up the fabric until Aziraphale’s toga was stretched so tightly over his torso it left very little to the imagination, and, oh, oh, _Man Chest, err_, and it must have provided some kind of heightened friction for the sensitive skin beneath, making the angel gasp again, and Crowley almost erected a victory flag for one-upping the angel, but then Aziraphale _licked_ into his mouth, his tongue slick and hot, like liquid magma, and Crowley clung on for dear life, the wall behind him and the world in front of him utterly forgotten.

A recent memory of Aziraphale sucking an oyster dry in one go flashed before his eyes.

Crowley rather felt like one of those oysters right now.

He was warm all over, warmer than ever, really, including all the times he tried to heat up his long, scaly body against some scalding stones when the Sun was at its highest in the day, but fuck all that, because apparently, if a demon wanted to get a fire going all he need to do was get an angel crowding him against a wall, blocking the universe out on the other side. It was cranking up the heat in his ancient bones so effectively he could hardly think. For a moment he wondered if any random angel would do, but then Crowley slid his own nimble tongue against the liquid heat and Aziraphale whined low and heavy, and Crowley felt it more than he heard it, and something in his mind went up in sparks. He almost wanted to apologize to the angel for questioning if it was an _angel_ versus an _Aziraphale_ thing to do, and how it was clearly, indisputably, shockingly the latter. Aziraphale moaned against him again, and Crowley was insufferably proud that him, a demon, _a moron_, licking an angel’s tongue produced a louder and harder moaning that any of the oysters in the tavern had earlier.

(Take that, Petronius.)

Aziraphale pushed against him fast and reluctant at the same time, so in sync to what and who he was, to his past actions of trusting and disobeying, disbelieving and pioneering, it was so _him_, and Satan in Hell, they were flush front to front, Crowley’s sharp angles were melting into something a lot more malleable and oblong, and then one of Aziraphale’s legs pressed between Crowley’s - lacking _any_ kind of hesitance. Crowley had no way of knowing if the act was deliberate or if the angel just needed to catch balance, but it was good, it was so good because it brought them another step closer, and Crowley realized how for all that melting and liquefying, one thing remained painfully tight and heavy.

_Two_ of those things, actually.

The action gave both of them pause, pause that should occur minutes ago if their lungs were for anything but decoration, and while Aziraphale seemed to use the lull in kissing in testing out new waters by slowly pressing his thigh even more forward, flush between Crowley’s legs and into his crotch, _fuck_, it was hitting a _very_ good spot indeed, Crowley decided it was obviously his turn to try himself at this kissing thing. His mouth was hot and fast and back on Aziraphale’s lips, the lips that were becoming _red_ and _pouty_ and they also fucking _glistened_, just like Aziraphale’s proverbial halo and his not-so-proverbial golden brooch, and Crowley wondered if this was how Eve felt when he tempted her to the apple. His hands let go of the fabric, sliding down in one firm, fast swoop to Aziraphale’s lower back, pulling him in tighter and firmer, his inner snake wanting _all_ the warmth, wanting to curl up in that place between them through the togas that seemed to be radiating even more heat than the rest of them, and then Aziraphale, _as if he could read his fucking mind_, bucked his hips forward.

(Take _that_, original sin.)

Something fiery and sweltering spooled low and heavy in Crowley’s stomach, seeping lower, swirling around his crotch, and Crowley’s head went falling back against the wall, his gilded band of laurels almost getting pushed off and catching on the ivy, still clutching at the small of Aziraphale’s back and riding out the canting and pushing and rolling of the hips, gasping in disbelief and wonder at how can somebody who already Fell feel so needy and on the verge of all the wrong choices for all the right reasons.

Aziraphale’s mouth followed him, chasing him, finding him before his head even connected with the wall again, slanting lips back over his, their hips pursuing an ache that seemed to be getting closer, and God Almighty but this was all so insanely good, so good and wicked it made Crowley chuckle against Aziraphale’s lips.

“You are _way_ too good at tempting, angel.”

Two things happened next.

First, Crowley realized his mind shifted from _the angel_ to _angel_ as a name that surpassed the insulting tone of calling Aziraphale out on his bullshit and into an odd term of some twisted, dysfunctional endearment, and, secondly, as soon as Crowley’s words pierced through the fog of wine and oysters and carnal pleasure and crystalized for Aziraphale the angel _froze_, and then stepped _back_, Crowley’s entire body suddenly experiencing lack of heat everywhere, and before he could retrace his thoughts and words to figure out what the hell has happened, Aziraphale murmured a quick _oh dear, oh my goodness, would you look at the time, I really must be going_, disappearing into thin air as if magicked away.

Crowley leaned against the wall, the poor thing now having to take over the supporting act without any alternatives present, blinking stupidly and still breathing heavy. So, Aziraphale skedaddled. Not that he could resent him, really, because what the actual fuck, but his lips still tingled, his _body_ still tingled, so it was difficult to pretend this didn’t happen.

They must have been quite an attraction in these past few minutes, trying to devour each other up against a wall.

Quickly melting into a snake and slithering away quietly, not wanting to feel any more of the human body sensations for the moment, Crowley felt only slightly guilty that he didn’t even check if he had any bystanders before Changing.

**Very Hard in Damp Places**

** **

Next time Crowley ran into Aziraphale was roughly 500 years later, which the universe in general probably deemed a sufficient amount of time for either of them _not_ to bolt on the spot when they saw each other, just in case they were still hung up on Whatever The Fuck happened in Rome all those centuries ago.

The universe would be wrong.

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable, he looked downright constipated and trying for a Mask, and Crowley wanted to make an official statement, a notary to stamp and sign, _let there be known from this day henceforth_ that angels clearly needed an era to come to terms with whatever embarrassed them, they were useless at dealing with Things, Crowley suspected Aziraphale had spent absolutely zero of the past 500 years self-reflecting and addressing internal issues, he probably Ignored their Rome Fiasco or denied its existence in total, unlike Crowley who spent every day recounting the steps, revelling in an unknown sweet ache it made him feel behind the ribs, and it wasn’t strictly pleasant, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant either, and he really did like pulling at his scabs or scratching the itch raw, he just Was Like That, and Christ Almighty, sometimes they really were on the opposite ends of the spectrum, weren’t they?

All he had to work with this time around was a little bit of Aziraphale’s face, that little bit of him that was on display in his stupid , shiny, _stupid_ armour, but the face spoke for itself, it seemed like the angel wanted to be miles, continents, galaxies away, and Crowley had no idea whether he should be relieved or insulted. (There _was_ something mighty attractive in not talking about the issue now that the chance has presented itself.)

Aziraphale was babbling something about the King and the battle and god knows what, clutching at a neutral, safe topic like a lifeline, but Crowley wasn’t really listening, to be quite honest, because that sweet ache, the jolts, the mini _quakes_ were back, and they increased tenfold, and he was completely befuddled where to look because he was used to seeing the angel in lose, airy clothing, it’s been thousands of years and it has _always_ been just white curtains of different fabric and design and style, but this was Plate and Mantle, all hard and impenetrable, all doomsday and no fun, _but as shiny as ever_, and then Crowley vaguely wondered if the infamous King Arthur really existed at all and if it wasn’t perhaps just Aziraphale all along, posing as a mighty leader, trying to give England hope. (And if Aziraphale was Arthur then Aziraphale was the magician as well, and the prospect of the angel posing both as Arthur _and_ Merlin gave Crowley such a headache he expected a nosebleed to follow any minute now.)

But then Aziraphale went and asked if “forment” was a kind of porridge, and Crowley decided somebody so hopelessly dumb couldn’t pose for anything but a genuine idiot to save his life.

Crowley realized the setting here was all wrong: open space, all trees and no walls, _he wanted a wall_ at his disposal again, a nice, solid wall, ivy notwithstanding, that would once again help Aziraphale trap Crowley between them. So, he babbled something about both of them “going home”, hoping the angel could read between the lines, to just leave and let the fate of the British Isles be decided without any kind of intervention, demonic or divine, but Sir Porridge was clearly too dim to see any kind of subliminal messages because he huffed something about principles and moral crap and how they must _fight for peace_, the contradicting idiot clearly didn’t understand Crowley was ready to yell surrender and magic up some white flags, and then Aziraphale stormed off like a woman scorned, making Crowley look like a man _dumped_, which resulted in Crowley’s onlookers snickering something about breeches being on fire, and their black knight being cat-whipped.

Crowley abandoned them to their fate soon after because mental images of not just any underwear on fire but _Aziraphale’s_ _underwear on fire_ was causing all those ground zero trembles and heat to pulsate and vibrate in his midriff again, making him think of wrinkling fabric in his palms, something _warmer and alive_ beneath the fabric, and an almost-forgotten, sweet taste in his mouth.

A little later he learned of Aziraphale’s side miraculously turning horrific odds into unexpected triumph, and he couldn’t help smiling to himself a little bit. Even if a report to Downstairs how he botched up his instructed mischief will be an absolute _pain_ to write.

**Yes, All Right, My treat**

** **

He could smell the fucking grapes on him before he even entered the Globe Theatre.

Aziraphale was positively radiant and beaming at the rubbish actors on the stage, as if he honestly couldn’t tell a difference between a good or a bad play, he conversed with the playwright as if they were old mates, he was not even _on_ the fucking stage but everything in the theatre revolved _around_ him, and then he re-directed the radiance and all that angelic beaming at Crowley, and Crowley was so relieved that Aziraphale had clearly either moved on or his effort to Forget finally paid off, but things didn’t feel awkward, for once, so he was going to grab the offered olive branch with both hands and feet and the rest of his body and hold on _tight_.

(But never mind him losing his mind in the 5th century over Aziraphale literally being _a knight in shining armour_, because Elizabethan attire made him look like a court jester instead of a saviour in chainmail.

Like a little cherub playing dress up in his aunt’s clothing.

…Like a popsicle with too many frilly cream toppings.

_Um_.

And, of _all_ the things to put around one’s neck…)

Crowley couldn’t help himself.

He only meant to pop by to see if the angel was interested in another arrangement, it was the one with the Future Cow Wife that brought him so much joy in the millennia to come, but then he ended up overstaying because it was atrociously obvious just how much Aziraphale adored theatre and the art of performing, and he was so endearing at motivating the actors and even the god damn playwright who was more useless and lacklustre with every new play he put out, but the whole place seemed _sunlit_ just because an Angel was – and excuse him the melodrama of the word – happy to be there.

If there ever was a time and a place Aziraphale looked like he belonged to, looking more human than ethereal, more at home than an angel in Heaven, it was this.

And Crowley felt quite enchanted in the wake of it. If he paid less attention he might be annoyed or even upset at Aziraphale spluttering and blushing and stuttering, denying their friendship to the Hamlet actor, but all Crowley could do was smile _like the fucking moron that he was_ because yes, Aziraphale was in his element, he didn’t really need Crowley there, but he made Crowley a part of it so effortlessly, so organically, so _sweetly,_ and Crowley wanted him to have his illusion of everything going right and well and true and proper for a while longer, so he caved, he caved like a poorly-structured, rachitic bridge, like a house of cards, assembled by an amateur, and blurted he’ll miracle Hamlet into a global success.

Aziraphale’s eyes glittered like the stars Crowley hung in the sky thousands of years before, and a thunderbolt lurch he felt in his chest was also identical to what he experienced when he watched his first nebula explode into being. He swallowed down a pained little noise, this was _stupid_, this was ridiculous, they were fine again and he would jeopardize that by doing what, exactly, bring up a drunken fumble from 15 lifetimes ago just to satiate his own need for an explanation?

No.

Crowley liked to believe he was as selfish as the next guy, but this, this he couldn’t do.

He turned on his heel and walked away, because what he needed right now was a safety net of a cover of any kind, a cover and some solid support, something beautifully un-alive to not judge him, and the damn theatre didn’t have internal walls he could hide behind, but it had nice, big, secluded trams all over the place, and Crowley ducked in the shadow behind one like a coward in need of saving from himself.

He breathed. In fact, he got about two breaths in, the volcano in his chest not subsiding in the slightest, when tell-tale, pitter-patter steps of an angel in high spirits followed.

_Fuck_.

“Crowley, where are yo-“

Crowley wheeled around, grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders and pressed him against the tram.

And kissed him hard.

_Not what he was going to do, abort, abort, what the fuck, what the fuuuck_, but then a breathy _oh_ left Aziraphale’s mouth and ended in Crowley’s, and he swallowed it down like it was the most potent ambrosia he’s ever tasted in his life. It’s been a millennia and a half since he last kissed the angel, _his_ angel, _oh_, angel, angel, _Angel_, he was kissing him in sync with his thoughts, the names for Aziraphale, the beats of his heart, and he noticed with an immeasurable amount of satisfaction that this time, _this time for fucking sure_ it was not just him who was trembling in the aftermath of the onslaught. He licked his way inside Aziraphale’s mouth, remembering what it did to them both the last time it happened. He went a step further, wanting everything at once, unable to stop, utterly unable to do anything but kiss and kiss and kiss, sucking on Aziraphale’s tongue hard. The angel bucked into him, his arms uncontrollably flying through the air and then dropping and clutching heavy and firm, with an iron-like grip at Crowley’s hips, and if Crowley had any time to think he’d be impressed how Aziraphale managed to even find his hips in these stupid trunks, all puffed up and ballooning, making men look like very fertile hippopotamuses.

The angel’s touch was scorching, even over all those layers, which was a lot more than just those loose Roman togas all that time ago, Aziraphale’s hands were on hips, Aziraphale’s _hands_, were on his _hips_, and Crowley suddenly snarled at the ridiculous paper-ruff collar, all teeth and disdain, pulling it aside with one hand and biting down on the exposed skin.

Aziraphale convulsed against him, keening low in his throat that Crowley felt seeping through the neck, tightening his hold, but he also started bucking forward again, just like in 41 AD, and only God’s intervention could stop Crowley now on his crusade. He planted his feet firmly down and pressed forward, shamelessly giving Aziraphale something concrete to work against. He turned his attention back to that mouth-watering column of pearly flesh that was pristine and pure and perfect save for that one spot that was already forming a dark splotch in the shape of Crowley’s mouth, sinking his teeth back in and _sucking_. He felt out of his fucking mind, he felt on fire, humming a noise of encouragement every time Aziraphale’s hips jumped forward into his. He was so hard he could barely think, this was madness, utter madness, he went from zero, from cold, from indifferent to a thousand hot needy yearning suns in a span of one duration of a kiss. He cradled Aziraphale’s face and went for the mouth again, because while the neck was something that _needed_ to be revisited, the angel’s mouth, _his mouth_, he would pick that mouth over anything else if he really had to make a choice, a blinding thrill of reciprocation shooting through him that Aziraphale closed the minute gap between them, lips already falling open before they even connected, searching and finding and claiming.

Crowley’s glasses got pushed askew, exposing one of his eyes, and for a moment his vision was entirely unobstructed, he found himself sharing a heated, loaded gaze with all that Incredible Blue that was hardly visible right now, the black pits of Aziraphale’s pupils forming black holes that will devour everything in their way. Everything stopped for that moment, everything, their movement, the breathing, the Earth itself, Crowley didn’t care one bit for Hell or Heaven anymore, only for being held by Aziraphale and having himself be the sole intensive focus of the angel’s attention.

The moment ended with them clashing back together, mouths and hips more frantic, faster, the rolling became irregular, and Crowley knew any thrust could be his last. His undergarments were becoming slick, slick from sweat and precome, making all of his body itch from feeling too warm under all those tights and trunks and frills and balloons, he suddenly wished he could pull all of his clothes off, and fuck, oh fuck, mental images of them doing exactly the same thing but _naked_ made him whine low in his throat, trembling in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale was holding on for dear life, his breath reduced to small erratic bursts and puffs against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley was becoming giddy and lightheaded, there will finally be a prologue to what started in Rome, it will finish and maybe start something else, something new, but Crowley knew it needed to be done, it needed to happen, they needed to have this and then see what’s what in the aftermath, and this time, this time he will keep his mouth fucking _shut_ to not babble about temptations and scare Aziraphale off-

“_Gentlemen_.”

Aziraphale squeaked so loudly against his ear he nearly burst Crowley’s eardrum, spinning away, leaving Crowley staring at the old, worn wood of the tram, slowly turning his head and finding himself glaring at Mister Shakespeare himself.

At least the guy looked like he would rather be either miles away or dead.

“I’m-”

“_Go away_.”

He knew he was breathing hard, so hard he could barely speak, but he was so furious, he was flaming, _fuming_, and he had to remind himself that biting this guy’s head off was not a proper course of action no matter how much he wanted it to be.

“I merely wanted-”

Speaking of things Crowley himself wanted, where did Aziraphale go? Crowley swiped a hand over his face, wishing he could brush and wipe away the rollercoaster of everything that was going on inside him right now, succeeding with only removing a thin layer of sweat on the outside, and looked after Aziraphale. He spotted his golden head of curls on the other side of the theatre, still moving away.

He swallowed regret and turned back towards the playwright, readjusting his glasses.

“_What_.”

“Did I, um. Impose on someth-”

“_Yes_, you _were_.”

Shakespeare was holding his hands up in front of his chest in a defensive, placating gesture.

“I apologize, of course.”

Crowley grit his molars.

“Was there something you actually needed? More quotes that would help your dramas?”

Shakespeare bit his lip.

“You’re not that far off, I’m afraid.”

Crowley heard the tell-tale sign of the eerie magical burst of one particular angel disappearing off the map.

_Damn it. Fucking damn it._

With Aziraphale out of the picture, he might as well humour the guy, needing distraction himself all of a sudden. He crossed his arms, leaning back against the tram.

“Alright, _Billy_. Will any old random quote do?”

“Actually, it’s William.”

“And I’m Fucking Livid, nice to meet you, so tell me what the fuck you want.”

“Right, right.”

To Crowley’s horror, Shakespeare produced a board with a scroll attached, and a quill, holding both at the ready.

“I thought Mr Fell said you are not on friendly terms with each other?”

“He lied.”

“Why?”

“Because people should mind their own business.”

“Ah, see, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? I may not have a lot going for me, but snuffing out good stories to retell is something you can count on me for.”

Crowley snorted inwardly, thinking how only his miracle intervention will make _Hamlet_ a success. Pretty much only because Aziraphale begged with his whole being for it. And fuck it, but Crowley would do it for every single drama this fucktard produces just to have the angel look at him like that again.

“Sure thing, whatever helps you sleep at night, Billy.”

“I am sensing some tension here.”

“You don’t say.”

“The way he, the way he _stormed_ off-”

“Was _spooked_ off.”

“-as if he couldn’t look at you-”

“_Because_ _you showed up.”_

Shakespeare pressed both of his index fingers against his lips, deep in thought, smudging a line of ink against his cheek in the process. Crowley’s left eyebrow was so unimpressed he only bothered with a half-assed arch. Literary genius, that one.

“Were you quarrelling? No, no, you were quite taken with each other in the pit during the rehearsal, and, well, after that, _quite taken_ is putting it mildly.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him.

“For your own sake I hope you alerted us to your presence as soon as you saw us.”

“I- I- Yes, of course, that is, I merely observed, see, research, for plays, of course, I am afraid it was quite eye-opening, seeing a gentleman biting the neck of another gentleman and not even in a pub brawl, so I-”

Crowley took a step forward, sneering, reaching to take off his glasses. This idiot stumbling upon them was one thing, but actually pausing to watch Aziraphale in his moment of unchecked abandon-

“Families! Are your families forbidding it?”

Shakespeare was grasping at straws, but Crowley realized he suddenly felt more tired than anything else. Not even angry anymore.

“Sure. You know what, sure. Families wouldn’t be very happy with all this, yeah. Something like that.”

The last thing he heard before walking away and rounding a corner was Shakespeare muttering to himself frantically, his quill scratching and skipping over the parchment,

“_Star-crossed lovers, families as enemies, emotional pining and tragedy…”_

Perhaps there was a kernel of truth in what Aziraphale had said earlier.

No, they weren’t friends. They were something _far_ more complex and dangerous.

Now he knew what Aziraphale’s mouth tasted like on its own _and_ after he had had grapes.

**Something to Nibble**

** **

Crowley would like somebody smart to riddle him this:

Man A is painfully aware of the political unrest in Europe. Well-educated, on top with recent events, not-at-all confused which side is doing what to whom. Despite all this, Man A decides to venture into the heart of it, into the eye of the storm, into the very furnace that produces the fire of the revolution, _dressed like that_, all because he felt like eating something that was not on-par anywhere else in the universe.

Man B was also painfully aware of the political unrest, the stakes both sides put into it, where the ground zero was, yada yada, all that jazz, and he was even aware of what _not_ to wear.

Man A was now waiting for his execution.

Man B was swooping down, in, around, whatever, to rescue Man A.

_Who was the bigger moron here?_

_ _

_ _

Crowley would give any sane person a reasonable amount of time for consideration and response, but he still accepted the fact that most likely nine point five out of ten people would say that yes, Man A was _undeniably_ a fucking doofus, but that the Man B was the obvious tragic moron of the tale.

And yet he didn’t even have time to think about all that and feel self-conscious in his omni-present awareness of how foolish he was when it came to this particular angel. All of his not inconsiderable capacity for feeling enraged was preoccupied with Dearest Heaven Above right now.

Aziraphale freely admitted he couldn’t, or _wouldn’t_ save himself _because he was reprimanded_.

For performing _miracles_.

An angel was reprimanded for performing miracles.

_Wasn’t this what angels were created for? _

The fact it was that Fuckface Gabriel who said it made Crowley just that much angrier. He never liked the smug, prissy bastard. Or the pole up his ass. If Archangel has been so bored lately that he went and dragged an angel, _his_ Angel, through shit and cut down the available amount of miracle quota, Heaven really was losing it. Had Crowley had any idea how to go up there and rain terror and have his revenge on Aziraphale’s behalf, he’d be up there _right now_ with the rest of the Upper Management on their knees around him, cowering on the floor with their halos broken, pleading for mercy.

But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, so Crowley made the chains around Aziraphale’s wrists dissolve, the act so damn satisfying it was criminal, (in fact, it _was_ criminal, if Hell had found out Crowley rescued an angel he’d get into so much Trouble™, but, come on, useless people needed their guardian angels, and what useless angels needed was clearly their own guardian _somethings_, and Crowley has long since volunteered for the job), and when Aziraphale timidly offered to go get crepes together, Crowley pretty much vowed in silence to the whole universe he’ll not only create the damn crepes but prepare them himself from fucking scratch for the angel in case they couldn’t find any.

Luckily for both, the crepe shop was not only open, but served them for free, double the portions. At their best table. A man playing a violin also appeared in a corner. Crowley performed the miracles just to see tension of nearly-discorporating bleed away from Aziraphale’s oblivious face.

Their little event from the Globe has happened less than a cosmic blip ago in their temporal standards, so Crowley wished and wanted and silently demanded answers, or a reprieve, _or both_, both would be amazing, yes, but he saw how upset and frazzled Aziraphale was. There was even more jumping and fidgeting and handwringing than usual. Crowley was already present in the dark corner of the dungeon when the executioner wanted to touch Aziraphale’s neck to untie his frilly, cascading collar, he witnessed Aziraphale’s heart-wrenching squeak for the assault, he witnessed his own insides boiling with rage (and jealousy) that somebody wanted to touch the place where his mouth had been the last time he’d seen the angel, and if Aziraphale hadn’t beaten him to it to actually exchange his offensive, aristocratic clothes with the executioner’s colours of revolution, to have him put on the chopping block instead, it would have been the first thing on Crowley’s agenda.

(Perhaps _after_ they had crepes, though, because priorities, but still.)

He decided not to be selfish this time despite wanting to be selfish with every fibre of his being, and he decided to stick with it and _endure_, not like the last time when the intention was there but then Crowley threw it away, chucked it, let it spiral through the air, forgotten before it hit the ground because he was already too busy kissing the angel fast… And, speaking of which, during their brunch, Aziraphale started getting colour back to his cheeks, and he started to relax, his nonsensical babbling about books coming out full force again, and then there was that _horrific_ little smidgeon of jam that got caught in the corner of his mouth, and for the next half an hour, Crowley had absolutely no fucking idea what they talked about because _all_ he could think of was wipinglickingkissing that thing away. Maybe also smearing it on angel’s neck and sucking it off.

He fully accepted his fate by now, there was nothing for it, he was the tragical moronic hero of this story, and the sooner he came to terms with that the better, especially once he realized they will once again part ways without addressing them doing whatever the hell they were doing in Rome and London, how when they started they seemed to be unable to produce another coherent thought and make themselves _stop_ as he watched Aziraphale flag himself down a carriage to disappear off into the distance, his trademark form of exit.

That era-old sweet ache was a dull, background music now, white noise he has grown accustomed to carrying with him constantly.

A carriage stopped, and he held the door open for the angel, offering a hand to help him climb in like the gentleman he wasn’t, trying to stomp down on feeling hopelessly lost in that moment, not wanting the day to end, never wanting the day to end, already stepping back so the door could be closed, but then Aziraphale’s hand covered his.

Two hands held the internal doorknob, gloved fingers flexing and trembling.

The angel leaned out of the carriage, his cheeks a lovely, _maddening_ rosy pink.

“Thank you, dear,” he murmured before pressing a fleeting, soft, strawberry-jam kiss to Crowley’s lips, and flagging the chauffeur for departure.

Crowley stood outside on the pavement for a long, long time, his heart in his chest a hummingbird, a pummelling hammer, his soul on fire for the second time in his life, both times from falling, lips still tingling from the sweetest exchange in existence.

Now he could add the taste of Aziraphale after he has had crepes as well.

_Fuck._

** _Obviously_ **

** _ _ **

The _Fraternizing_ thing stung. It really did. Crowley wanted to inform the haughty angel that it always took _two_ interested parties to actually pull the fraternizing off, and as far as Crowley was concerned, since he’s actually _been_ one of these two parties, conscious and present, Aziraphale has been quite an active, dedicated participant every single time.

It made him wonder if Gabriel or some other Sack of Shit up there had words with Aziraphale again, something about too many miracles again, something about being too nice, something about having friends down on Earth, or perhaps they’d been _seen_, but no, no, they were ever so careful, they took precautions, they rotated their meeting locations and tried to make them random and pattern-less, there was no chance they knew an angel and a demon have been meeting up and hanging out (and that other thing that almost happened a few times) and doing neutral acts and deeds together, sometimes Crowley blessing a good guy, sometimes Aziraphale tempting a bad one – but no, they have been discreet, damn it, paranoid almost to a point when _they_ would forget where a Rendezvous Point Number 3 was, so if Aziraphale was now calling _all_ of their history, their timid friendship and tiptoeing the line of calling each other out on their bullshit, their side-stepping the norms and sporadically holding each other in an embrace that felt like new stars bursting to existence, if he has taken _all of that_ and reduced it to one simple word, and an insulting one at that…

_Fraternizing_.

Crowley was clutching at his cane like a lifeline that an eternal being like him didn’t need, and tried to return the insult favour; he scrambled for an equivalent amount of hurt to hurl back at the angel in his heartache, reaching for the same level of pain he was given. Telling Aziraphale he had plenty other people to fraternize with was a low blow, a big, fat lie, because Crowley was neither willing nor able to do any sort of fraternizing, emotional or carnal, platonic or romantic, with anyone else ever since Aziraphale shielded him from rain in Eden, but Aziraphale’s affronted _I’m sure you do_ made him feel just that much worse in the end.

Even if he was lying to himself before, or was too dumb to see it, it was clear as daylight now.

And it fucking hurt. It was ripping him apart. He was about to have the bottom of his soul torn open, jagged pieces cutting him down in the process, and he will bleed out right here, in front of the ducks they have been feeding since the concept of a duck sprang into existence. His Angel was refusing to give him the only thing he’s ever actually asked him for, the only thing Crowley could not procure for himself on his own, and for an _angel_ Aziraphale really was superbly well-equipped for throwing out stinging remarks.

And then he threw the paper with the offensive words away and stormed off in a huff, slightly reminiscent of the Wessex battlefield but on a grander emotional scale this time, causing half the people – and ducks – in the park to stare. At least no one snickered this time.

Crowley ignored them and continued to grind his molars to dust.

**You don’t like it?**

** **

There was a new addition to the riddle.

Man A was once again in such disregard to his well-being he was at the same time threatened with nazis, guns, _and_ bombs, but when Man A was presented with Man B’s new first name he seemed more preoccupied with _that_ than with his inescapable impending annihilation.

A bigger insult than Paperwork Due to Discorporation was finally found, and it was called _Anthony_.

The riddle? Man B walked into the one place that was hurting his existence by default. It was severely unpleasant, and he felt the layers of his human body being slowly peeled away, not unlike an onion that was losing sharpness and substance, but as he hopped from one foot to the other all _he_ worried about was not his continuous existence and overall health, but hoping beyond hope that Man A will understand what was going on here, and lend his hand.

To the greatest moron in existence.

(Man B had accidentally given away the answer to the riddle. Which was, _Man B is the moron_. It was getting too simple at this point anyway.)

In his last moment of sheer, utter panic, in his last second of terrifying clarity and brilliance as the falling bomb zoomed and wheezed above them, in his trepidation that Aziraphale was too daft to understand it was on him to save them, Crowley wanted to preserve one last thing that would endure in the aftermath of their departure to their prospective realms. Just to prove that they existed, that it happened, all of it happened, so he snapped his fingers and saved the damn books. He saved the whole bag filled with prophecy books he didn’t give two shits about, but they were Aziraphale’s most prized possession so it was kind of difficult to be objective at this point, and then he was so fucking relieved that Aziraphale did his part that Crowley, without as much as by-your-leave, so mollified and placated that they apparently still knew how to work together for a common cause, handed over the bag to the dumbstruck angel and headed for the Bentley.

He couldn’t keep standing there, looking Aziraphale in the eyes and be once again reminded of

_Fraternizing Theatre trams strawberry jam corners of mouth fingers flexing hip bones softest gasps puffed into ears taste of grapes_

_so _he offered a ride home, he always would and always will, and he was so fucking consoled they both survived he could barely walk in a straight line to the car and sit behind the wheel, momentarily forgetting how to even stick the bloody keys in the ignition. His whole body was drifting in the aftermath of the bomb. His _mind_ was drifting in the aftermath of Aziraphale, an angel, performing a miracle on him, a demon; he wanted to throw caution to the wind and stretch out his wings, soft as velvet and black as the night, and soar high, high, higher, and he might still do that later and somewhere out of sight, but what he couldn’t do tonight, what he absolutely couldn’t do, because _forget the bombs_, what Crowley wouldn’t be able to survive with or without a miracle, was once again getting his hopes up and yearning for the angel to hold him – only to watch him walk away.

Just when he started to wonder what the fuck was Aziraphale actually _doing_, just standing there in the debris and spacing out with a vacant expression like an idiot, something short-circuiting his brain and making him look like he just went through a shock therapy _and_ a lobotomy, the angel suddenly shook himself into awareness with powerful defiance and conviction, two little halos appearing not above his head but in his eyes, and trekked towards the car with speed uncharacteristic of him, throwing himself _and_ the bag inside with complete disregard to where either of them landed.

_As if Crowley didn’t just go Above and Beyond to secure both of those two things._

_Okay_. “Where to, Ange-”

Crowley got a lapful of Aziraphale, and a mouthful of him as well, and then the seats in the Bentley were gone, they _fucking_ _vanished_, and he would have torn off the head of anyone who dared refurbishing his car in any way, but the fact that it was Aziraphale doing it and that he was magicking away the seats _because he wanted_ _more manoeuvrable space _had Crowley flapping about like a headless chicken, trying to maintain the kiss and also trying to move the bag with books from under his back.

_Well done, angel, cripple me while you’re at it_

he thought desperately, because Aziraphale lopped the books out of sight, behind Crowley’s seat, but then he got rid of the seat and now the blasted things were highly, highly uncomfortable, and Crowley couldn’t reach because his arms were already busy, one hand in Those Curls, the other one grabbing at whatever of Aziraphale’s he could get a hold of, and perhaps multitasking wasn’t his strongest suit because he’d need a third hand to push the bag away, and the angel on top of him _clearly_ didn’t care Crowley was having a fit because of a few books, and he also clearly didn’t care that the car was sitting in the middle of war-torn London with bombs zooming over their heads, so Crowley gave up, prophecy books rearranging his lower spine be damned.

The angel can bitch about a few bent Nostradamus pages later.

Aziraphale must have also miracled some kind of a safe bubble around them, no, not _just_ them, the whole car, and it made Crowley’s poor heart soar, the act on-par and just as thoughtful as him preserving the books, while too busy kissing Crowley to wait for him to drive them to a safer location, and honestly, Crowley was _so_ on board with this. Aziraphale had thought of_ everything_, fuck, this wasn’t an _oops I just fell on your mouth again_ thing, this was premeditated and thought-through, at least in the last couple of minutes, but honestly who gave a toss because Aziraphale was actively thinking of throwing himself at him and assaulting him, keeping the car safe _for them_ and getting more space _for them_, and and and-

Crowley’s waited so long, too long, books and bombs will have to wait, but then as if Aziraphale (who, let’s face it, was sometimes a bit slow on the uptake) suddenly – finally – sensed his discomfort, fumbled and reached under him and pulled the bag out and pushed it to the side. All of this manoeuvring had really played to Crowley’s advantage, the body above him climbing all over his own, the muscles in Aziraphale’s thighs squeezing at the legs between them, arms and hands pressing down on Crowley’s shoulders and grabbing for purchase – in short, Crowley felt like a demonic ladder one Very Determined Angel was using for his own _up and down and all around_ and it was making him feel absolutely stupid from so much proximity and touching. All he could do, besides hanging on and surviving actually having Aziraphale in his fucking lap was holding him by the waist, both hands tight and secure just above his hips, above the line of his trousers, thumbs digging into the layers of clothing, wishing they were digging into the bare muscle there, into the slight layer of skin and fat covering the muscles and bones, and then he wanted his mouth there, tongue and teeth, and maybe again some of that strawberry jam.

Aziraphale abruptly sat up straight, still straddling him, starting to remove his coat as nonchalantly as if he just entered his bookshop and was shedding the outside clothes, getting comfortable for an evening in the armchair. Crowley made a dumb little noise of appreciation, his eyes dragging a slow, hungry line from their joined crotches all the way up to Aziraphale’s parted lips.

A tip of a pink tongue appeared and swiped at the bottom lip when the angel tried to wrestle one of his elbows out of a sleeve.

Crowley’s mouth went dry, his hands dropping down to Aziraphale’s thighs. He had them spread so nicely just above him, in such a perfect poise. It was dark in the car, but if he focused he could make out the _outline_ of… oh, it would be _such_ _a_ _shame_ to miss this opportunity. One of his hands squeezed at the thigh and anchored all of Crowley through that singular point of focus, while his other hand slid to the inner side and up, open palm connecting with the scorching heat of Aziraphale’s crotch, and, _oh fuck damn yes_, oh, fuck and damn and yes, he cupped his balls and gave a slight squeeze, and then slipped higher to press against his cock. A bang against the window nearly shook him out of his trance, and he was ready to kick and scream and _murder_ whomever it was this time, but, no, no, it was _Aziraphale_, one of his hands had slapped against the window, bracing himself there, the other one diggings fingers and nails into Crowley’s shoulder, all of him straining as if Crowley’s hands were full of electricity and he was trying to conduct the high voltage without bursting.

He pressed his hand up harder, slowly, for as much Aziraphale’s sake as his own, sensing a build-up of something _feral_ in him and trying to kerb it. Once again he lamented them not wearing the loose, airy togas, good Lord Above and Below, _that_ would have been insane, that would have been absolutely criminal, he could just push it up the angel’s legs, slip the fabric past the thick thighs, over his hips and expose him, and admire him, and _devour_ him. Aziraphale moaned something out loud above him, it really didn’t sound much like anything, and Crowley wasn’t too sure it was even supposed to, but he was pretty certain it had something to do with his palm finding the tip of Aziraphale’s cock, pressing against it, sliding down the whole length, pressing up against it, sliding back down the whole length, _pressing up against it_-

He knew Aziraphale couldn’t see him, his eyes have rolled back into his skull, his mouth slack and open, but Crowley still had the audacity to smirk, slowly and like an utter _bastard_ when the angel’s hands started to shake at Crowley’s slow and heavy stroking.

He was not prepared for this, he was not prepared to be in a horizontal position with his Angel on top of him and pressing down into his hand as if the proximity itself would end the entire Second World War, and he was _definitely_ not prepared for the perfect position they were in, their bodies already aligning and pushing towards each other, heat sparking up and sweeping from one pair of trousers into the other.

Crowley’s other hand reached up and eagerly tugged the bowtie away, thinking of all the stupid neck accessories Aziraphale had worn throughout the history because the fashion dictated it and Aziraphale claiming he had to wear them because _he had standards_, and how perhaps the bowtie was the least offensive of all if the angel truly insisted on having something there, and then Aziraphale’s hand, the one squeezing at his shoulder, climbed up Crowley’s clavicle and face like a drunk and heavy creature with too many legs, knocking both his shades and his hat somewhere up and out of sight.

When they locked eyes, blazing blue on yearning yellow, and with a whole lot of black on both sides, Aziraphale’s trembling hand covered and steadied Crowley’s own hand, holding it in place.

_But definitely not pushing him away._

“Angel?”

He needed to mentally remind himself that just because Aziraphale instigated this he still might not be completely ready, or, god forbid, _willing_ to do this now that the first few frantic minutes were over, but fuck, his hand had other ideas, because of course it did, and he really shouldn’t be held accountable for this because his body always did seem to do its own thing when Aziraphale was involved, but the fingers, palm, his wrist, the whole thing started moving again, little slow pushes, and Aziraphale swallowed audibly, an obscene, serrated gasp leaving his mouth.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“_Yes_.”

_Oh, thank fuck._

As far as intelligent conversations go, Crowley had to admit he’s done better, but fuck if it wasn’t his favourite exchange of all time. Aziraphale’s fingers flexed and pressed over Crowley’s, and stayed there, and helped him move.

_Jesus on a stick._

They were bringing Aziraphale off _together_.

“I need,” Aziraphale rasped, looking feverish, and before Crowley could ask (of course he’d ask, he’d give the bloody idiot anything he wanted, the universe was literally the limit), Aziraphale reached down, finally stopping supporting himself against the window, his eyes holding something so wicked Crowley thought he was going to explode like the bomb in the church earlier, sliding first the fingers and then the whole hand under Crowley’s shirt (when did it get untucked?) and up the torso, palm reverently swiping left to right, skimming over ribs and muscles, fingers brushing over sparse hair, skin on skin, _fucking skin on fucking skin_, and Crowley drew in a broken sound, feeling he might discorporate regardless of miracles set in place to prevent exactly that. He was going to help, yes, this was brilliant, he was going to help, he started unbuttoning his shirt with the free hand just in case Aziraphale wanted more access, _please please can angel want more access_, but apparently he was being too slow, the shirt suddenly flying open all on its own with the buttons ricocheting all over the car.

He chuckled in disbelief, unable to hide his smirk.

“We never needed supernatural powers for making out before, angel.”

Aziraphale paused with a hot and heavy palm on his chest, sweaty and sticking to the skin beneath, fingers splayed out above his heart, locking eyes with him. Poor sod couldn’t seem to decide what to focus on, frantic eyes darting around, from Crowley’s face to his chest, to his words, to his own response, so he decided on option number five: Aziraphale threw himself down with something akin to a battle cry, not missing Crowley’s mouth by even a millimetre, as if he knew – with mathematical precision – exactly where to land.

This, this was familiar grounds now. Crowley’s hand was trapped between them for a few moments, but then he pulled it out, and they clung to clothes and arms, falling together, down, up, into each other, warm, pliant lips finding an identical pair to play with, hot breaths mixing, the only thing better than any of their previous encounters this new horizontal parameter versus the past vertical one, and lying down really was amazing, nobody needed to think about staying upright, nobody needed to hold them up, support-providing walls were redundant and obsolete. Now, Crowley could appreciate even more just how well he fit between Aziraphale’s thighs, how exhilarating it was to be pretty much topless with the angel on top of him still fully-clothed, sans the coat, how he nearly had a black-out every time the angel pushed down into him, hard as a fucking rock.

Something threatened to claw and burst its way out of his chest.

“Aziraphhhmmm. Azir- Mmmh?“ _Ahhh, fuck it,_ talking wasn’t that important anyway, what was it that he wanted to say again, he had no fucking idea and maybe there was nothing, maybe he just wanted to keep saying the name, the name that was on his lips and on his mind since the moment they met, and will be there forever or at least until he is allowed – by the universe itself or the angel in question, and Aziraphale clearly wouldn’t be deterred from kissing him, even when the mouth he was assaulting right now was trying to talk to him.

So Crowley let go.

Talking had to be done in another way, and luckily, he could use his whole body for it. Aziraphale tasted just like he remembered, he tasted sacred and hopeful and excited and bookish and lovely, _absolutely lovely_, and right now he also tasted a bit like a cocktail of Holy Water and Hellfire – not that Crowley would know, never tasting one and immune to the other, but Aziraphale was making him tremble all over, so he might as well compare it to something that could annihilate him in moments, and something that kept him alive against all odds. Crowley pulled his focus from thoroughly tasting Aziraphale’s tongue with his own, and finished lazily untucking Aziraphale’s shirt, making slow progress, but they had time, _for once_ it seemed they had time and seclusion on their side, and when he was done he was awarded with a delicious shudder, first from cool air hitting the milky skin, and then from Crowley scraping his nails over Aziraphale’s lower back.

Aziraphale cursed, mumbling, unable to hide the profanity, pressing his face into Crowley’s neck.

“What was that, angel?”

God, he sounded so wrecked already.

“I said, _do it again_.”

Crowley grinned, turning his face and licking across Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale arched and cursed again, and if the angel had a foul mouth in this kind of a setting and was prone to cursing when wicked things were being done to his body, Crowley adored him for it even more, and was also getting addicted to it _fast_.

This had to be investigated further. No self-respecting demon, lover, moron, all of the above, take your pick, would be holding a warm, turned on, trembling angel, and hold back.

His mouth fell open again, Aziraphale on it as if he lost a coin toss to both bless and corrupt Crowley’s lips with his own, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and running the tongue over it over and over, movement reminiscent of his hips circling and pressing down, making Crowley see double. (Thank _fuck_ reality only had one Aziraphale, or Crowley would have discorporated himself on purpose a long time ago.) He was stupid with lust, he was _crazy_ with want, he wanted the angel so badly his entire crotch area _ached_, he needed to touch, he needed to touch _more skin_, scraping his nails in all sorts of patterns across Aziraphale’s back quite desperately, and then he slid his hands all the way down, beneath the hem of the pants and inside the underwear.

Grabbing and cupping Aziraphale’s ass almost made Crowley want to pick up praying again.

If he hadn’t started chuckling breathlessly over the return of the cursing.

“Angel, that _mouth_ of yours.”

“Shut up and _kiss_ me, if you know what’s good for you.”

Crowley rather thought he did know.

He gasped at the way Aziraphale arched into him, a helpless push down into Crowley’s hips and an erratic press back into his hands, and then again, and again, and again, and fuck, yes, Aziraphale was definitely the smarter of the two, because this rhythm was perfect, Crowley was once again tingling all over from feeling too warm in his clothes, from said clothes feeling too tight, too confining, and the kisses just kept on coming and coming and coming, and Crowley didn’t want to trust the situation and let go, he wanted to but he didn’t _dare_, he’s been played for an idiot twice already in this exact situation, trying to give himself over only to have the angel be torn away from him by fate or chance or cold feet or whatever the fuck happened every time they were this close to – to _something_, but it was impossible to hold back tonight, Aziraphale was so wonderfully there, so solid, so determined, it was impossible not to trust him because he lov-

Crowley moaned, his eyes flying open, needing to break the kiss, gasping and staring at the dark roof of the car above them. He was afraid to follow that train of thought again, he was terrified, and, was all this whimpering coming from him? And the shaking? And the nonsensical whispering? Surely not, but then again also probably, yes, his lips were next to Aziraphale’s ear now, murmuring something that wasn’t words but it was more than nothing, _way_ more than just a wisp of air because Aziraphale was responding to it, nodding, sighing brokenly himself, his nose pressed to the nape of Crowley’s neck, his breathing laboured and heavy. Crowley’s hands kept pushing the angel down, down, down, towards the sweet end, the moments when Aziraphale’s hips would lift up and there was no contact were maddening, Crowley hated every single one, he couldn’t stand to be so far away from him, so his hands pushed down, making their confined cocks rub together in a single, on-going moment that was stretching and stretching, and then one of his fingers, splayed over Aziraphale’s ass dipped _between_, and Aziraphale uttered something filthy, and chased it down with Crowley’s name fast, shaking and _shaking_ and then his wings flapped up and out, as much as they could in the confinements of the car, iridescent and so dazzlingly white, looking like an Angel heading into battle, and Crowley was already dithering on the edge, wanting to let go and to prolong this at the same time, but Aziraphale choking out his release into his ear just set him aflame without warning, and he followed, coming so hard he was sure Bentley’s tires must have let out below them, the whole car deflating and melting to the concrete beneath.

It was impossible, to get his bearings after.

He had no idea where he was or how to find himself, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to find the car either, if he wasn’t fucking lying in it.

Crowley tried and failed, and this was reminiscent of a lot in his long existence, the trial and error bits, but things were usually either mostly good or mostly bad, never so in-between and yet perfect at the same time, his mind was full of soft, cotton-y blankness and pitched screaming, and his vision was a mix of clear like a glass and bleary like an oil painting, and his face was held between two unbearably gentle hands, as if the owner of those hands felt something tender towards him for real, because how could someone hold your face like that if they didn’t, the thumbs of those hands swiping something away from the corners of his eyes, and Crowley would not address that, he wouldn’t, he’ll just blink the fog and dampness away, and then he extricated his hands out of the angel’s trousers, needing to run them through Aziraphale’s curls again.

_Those curls. They’ll be the death of him._

All he wanted to do was stay in the car and hold his angel and pet his hair, and hope he’d eventually find courage somewhere in his heart and in his throat, and tell Aziraphale this has never been just about the physical for him.

Aziraphale’s face was so close, and that was a small mercy, not being able to see his exact expression, just bits and parts, a strange kaleidoscope of perfect little pieces, but the angel nosed at his nose and mouthed at his mouth, and then his golden eyelashes fluttered closed, and Crowley allowed himself to get lost in another strawberry-sweet kiss.

**Another Hundred to Keep _Shtum_ **

** _ _ **

He was going to do this. He was really going to do this, and he was apprehensive and excited over it at the same time. He was the master of his fate, his hands on the wheel, taking control of his life – or at least that little bit of it that he actually could.

Nothing else felt _his_ anymore.

Funny, how the universe mocked somebody who didn’t need health or money or shelter, and yet made him constantly feel poor and homeless and ill beyond measure. Upstairs didn’t want him. Not that he was actually interested in ever going back. Downstairs liked a false image of him, an image he fed them himself, playing up his dark deeds just to keep them satisfied. If Downstairs knew the real him, the one existing between two realms, belonging to neither, too impish for one and too delicate for the other, they wouldn’t want him, either. And Earthlings… They were mostly curious and thought he was pretty, but that was the extent of the depth of their feelings towards him.

And the angel…

He watched his Bentley from across the street.

Satan in Hell, he _loved_ that car.

He loved every second he spent in it, including the memories that haunted his steps like hellhounds fixed on a mark. The seats he magicked back inside in 1941 were brand new, and different, from colour to style to fabric, but the rest of the car was the same, the old sputtering and its old soul, an odd kindred spirit to Crowley’s own tired, crippled heart, and while some things in the car may have been new, Crowley was well aware that even a new liver would not stop an alcoholic from being one.

Again, it was a mere cosmic blip since the last time they’d seen each other.

Crowley had tried spending most of the time sleeping, anyway, mostly miraculously devoid of any unwanted dreams, even if he kind of resented the act itself a little bit. It was hard not to, even when he tried to be reasonable; that night, the _London_ night, the one during the world war, when he saved the angel and his books, when the angel and him had brought themselves closer together than ever before, that night when he realized he was in bloody love for Satan knew how long, was the last undisturbed, sound sleep he’s had since. The angel, his angel, oh, but not really, see, Crowley had wanted to call him His Angel not just in his head but out loud as well, but he could only do that if the angel allowed, right, and the angel had made a few things so very clear that night, because, because – Aziraphale had kissed him into slumber, he had kissed him until Crowley’s eyes stopped leaking those treacherous tears, he had kissed him until Crowley had no idea how lips even worked anymore, just weakly and sloppily pressing and mouthing at the angel, he had kissed him until Crowley was so in tune with Aziraphale’s taste and smell that he could become a hound, able to sniff him out without a trace in the entire universe. But then Crowley, on the brink of unconsciousness, probably appearing out cold to the world but still clinging to the last dregs of awareness, something heavy pressing on his energy reserves, had heard a small, quiet, heart-breaking and heart-broken, utterly wretched _I am so_ _sorry, my dear_, and when he woke up, the car was just as empty on the inside as Crowley himself felt.

The angel had clearly made his choice, and Crowley considered himself lucky for waking up into the era of psychedelic drugs because they did something brilliant to a man who felt like a husk of his former self.

Beyond robbing the Church of that damned innocent-looking water that would fizz his ass out of existence should he ever have the need of it, Crowley was in no rush to do absolutely anything at all.

He crossed the street and hopped in the car, still entertained and preoccupied by young Shadwell’s literal witch-hunting obsession and bravado.

And then all of the blood in his body turned to ice, because of course, of _bloody_ course the god damn _Angel_ was sitting there on the passenger seat, staring ahead and pressing his lips together, Wessex Constipation in full force, his whole body terse and tight and looking guilty as if he was about to give the flaming sword away for the second time. He looked _good_. Or, actually no, not really – he looked anxious and concerned and on edge, torn about something, and he barely made any eye contact with Crowley, but because he was _Aziraphale_ he could be covered in sewer water and plague feces, wearing brown sandals with white socks, and Crowley would _still_ find him the brightest, most wondrous thing in existence.

And after Aziraphale was done babbling (oh, right, the angel was talking about something, there was the fidgeting and words rushing out, as if explaining himself and justifying some sort of action to somebody who was not actually in the car with them, as if Crowley was a witness to an angel admitting his sins in a confessional, but Crowley wasn’t really listening because _he has missed him so fucking much_, fuck, just sitting next to him was intoxicating, just seeing that same coat and curls and pink lips was maddening, his whole body _screamed_ at him to do or say _something_), he had timidly held up a thermal flask and handed it over.

Crowley stared.

No.

Fucking.

_Way._

And this was where Crowley did a little introspection, a little contemplation and soul-searching, trying to be fair, to give the angel the benefit of the doubt, not to be judgmental just because he was heartbroken, and put himself in Aziraphale’s shoes. The angel had, to be fair, just done something that he was not only strongly against from the very beginning, but would get into insane amount of trouble should Heaven find out what he did. _Just because a demon had asked him nicely_. Aziraphale had outright refused that day, the ducks their witnesses, he called it a _suicide pill_ as if Crowley would start dousing himself with holy water as soon as he would have laid hands on it, and Crowley called it _insurance_, because that was what it was, he had no idea what he wanted to use it for, hoping it won’t have to serve as his ticket out of here but willing to accept the fact that it might be. He’d been careful to pretend he was a good demon – doing Proper Demony Things and securing souls for Downstairs, and definitely not traipsing around with an angel, and Hell had bought it so far, they never really followed-up on anything, but _just in case_ Hell somehow found out about all these things and decided to do something worse than discorporation to him, Crowley had wanted a merciful way out. Which had apparently upset Aziraphale a great deal, having him throwing the whole Fraternizing thing about, and yet here they were now, some actual, proper, in-the-biblical-sense, honest-to-God _corporal_ fraternizing later, and the angel was handing the thing over as if he was saying sorry all over again.

_Take this, you maniac,_ Aziraphale’s whole being was projecting.

“Don’t you dare thank me for giving you the one weapon that could destroy you.”

Silly angel.

Another weapon existed that could destroy Crowley completely, and both of these things were currently sitting in Crowley’s car. Wearing a matching blue tartan pattern.

He carefully stowed the flask under his seat.

“Let’s just hope I don’t mistake it for tea if I’m ever in here drugged or hungover.”

He followed the lousy joke with a quiet, mirthless chuckle, but it died on his lips almost instantly, seeing the way Aziraphale was looking at him.

“Don’t say- _Don’t_ make light of this. It’s not funny, Crowley.”

It wasn’t. But neither was them sitting together in his car again.

“You know, this all feels very one-sided to me. I can’t say what I want, I can’t make jokes, I can only see you when you allow-”

“We could have a picnic, one day.”

_I’m sorry, the what?_

He blinked fast, checking if his earthly body hasn’t suffered a stroke by any chance.

Two grown up men having picnic only meant _one thing and one thing only_, unless Aziraphale really was that stupid, or unless Crowley himself really was that desperate, grasping for straws, seeing things that weren’t there just because he wanted to see signals and signs so badly – but it was too late for that, he could already picture it, the checkered-plaid blanket (red and white, naturally), the dry-wood basket, the fucking scones and cakes and strawberry jam in the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, and perhaps tea in a different flask, or some boozy lemonade, and no, he wasn’t crazy, this really could only be a date invitation, even if they were doing it all backwards_, 6000 fucking years of backwards_.

But he tried to talk about it, hadn’t he? He tried to talk that last night they were together, he tried to clear some shit up, maybe not exactly through a love declaration, a love declaration to this skittish angel would be like using a fog horn to wake up an old man with heart issues, but he wanted to tell Aziraphale how much he’s missed him whenever they were apart, he wanted to tell Aziraphale how nothing was the same without him, not even feeding the ducks, how pranking or mildly inconveniencing people had no real spark if he couldn’t tell Aziraphale about it afterwards, how the Bentley kept torturing him with all those songs and how they were all about their relationship and _how_ _they all made sense_, but it was the angel who wouldn’t let him speak, he just kept kissing him as if he was afraid Crowley would do exactly that – talk about feelings and other equally awful things, if he stopped.

Crowley leaned in.

(Just a little bit. Skittish angels, and all that. But he _had_ to have a clarification for this.)

“Picnic?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands, looking ready to bolt but ploughing on as if this was _important_.

“Or, you know, dine at the Ritz.”

_Ritz?_

Fuck. He wasn’t imagining it. This _was_ important.

Aziraphale was fumbling, even the tips of his ears were red by now, and Crowley felt as if he was the Bentley and somebody had just turned the key in the ignition. Something in him roared to life, something he presumed dead, as if a mechanic had touched that magic spot that leaked oil and was beyond repair, but was now in mint condition and ready for an exhibition.

“_Angel_.”

“Yes?”

Oh, fuck, Aziraphale was staring down at Crowley’s lips, getting heavy-lidded, probably even unaware of this slip, and Crowley was already making all sorts of loud and banging and screeching car and truck and rocket ship noises on the inside.

He dropped closer, his voice clipped.

“If you are asking me out on a date or if I would like something like that, the answer is, and has always been, _yes_.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut and Crowley capitulated, drawn in like a moth to flame, he could fight against it with his whole being and lose, he could be dragged in the opposite direction and still lose, he fell forward, always, always, always _towards_ the angel and never away from him, and then Aziraphale made a small, excited squeak at the back of his throat when their lips brushed – but that’s all Crowley did, all he had allowed himself to do, he teased their lips together and felt the tantalizing, painful tingle and want, the _pull_ between them, his eternal soul _demanding_ more, but he stayed where he was: not pulling back but not advancing either, knowing what it cost Aziraphale to say those words.

The invitation was out, and with it Aziraphale’s own way of admitting participation in this, objectively it was far more than Crowley’s ever said out loud on the subject, so really, again, _who was the bigger moron here?_ He may have felt all of those incredible, stupid, soft, _stupid_ things for the angel, but he’s never said them, and if the angel was as obtuse as Crowley suspected sometimes, then Aziraphale probably had no idea just how reciprocated his admissions actually were.

A precious, soft press of lips against his in what felt like a silent plea shook him to the core.

Aziraphale opened the door but didn’t exit the car, timid, heart-breaking reluctance in every line of his body. Crowley felt physically ill from wanting to reach out and hold him through the angel’s inner turmoil. Aziraphale finally lifted his head, deliberately looking Crowley in the eyes in that way that spelled they both knew Aziraphale would rather look at something else, at _anything_ else, but was soldiering on because what he was about to say was only fair game if he delivered it in a non-cowardly way, and Crowley’s own heart nearly shattered in that half of a second of the yet blissfully-undetermined reality where words might not cut and maim.

Aziraphale’s voice was absolutely conflicted as if it hurt him to say it as much as it will hurt Crowley to hear it,

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And then he was gone, flashes of worry and remorse like flickering streetlamps on his face.

And Crowley in his car, motionless, dumbstruck, and aflame.

Everything that those few words conveyed… Unless Aziraphale was talking about Crowley’s driving, which he might have, _on any other given night he might have_, but what Crowley heard was that Aziraphale didn’t have regrets. None, it seemed. He didn’t regret the things they’ve done, but he wasn’t ready for that pace yet. Delving right into it would have Aziraphale look deeply into things he wouldn’t or couldn’t address yet, and Crowley thought he understood. Aziraphale has always, _still_, been clinging to the idea of angelic moral code, of their pristine nature, of them exercising the will of God, of them being pure and selfless, without needs and wants, and admitting to having feelings for a _demon_ would bring down just about his entire fucking existence.

It hurt, but Crowley understood.

It’s not that him loving an angel would have no repercussions should Hell find out, no, Crowley had a terrified notion they’d settle on something absolutely horrific, something like dedicating their forces to find the angel in question and then make the demon watch as they burn the angel in Hellfire until irreversibly crisp, so he had to be discreet and make sure Aziraphale was safe, always, and he would sooner tear down Heaven and Hell and flip the God Herself off _to Her face_ if she allowed one of Her greatest creations to be captured by Hell, but unlike Aziraphale, at least _he_ couldn’t Fall any further.

_It wasn’t a no._

It wasn’t a yes, but it was a damn good maybe, an acknowledgment of angel’s own involvement, an invitation for a potential future, for something very public and official in that potential future, _a fucking date_, and for a very private, very skittish and very fidgety angel, it was _massive_.

Aziraphale needed time, but it wasn’t a no.

Aziraphale left yet again, but it wasn’t a no.

Crowley also understood another layer of handing over the flask with Holy Water, now. By giving it to him, never mind for all the obvious reasons, Aziraphale had given him the one thing Crowley really, really, _really_ needed him, an angel, for, and by giving it to him, Aziraphale admitted Crowley was free, on his own, no ties to Aziraphale, nothing to keep him there any longer unless he wanted to stay; it was an admission of his own fleeting nature throughout the past few thousand years, appearing and tying Crowley up to him in their mad, mad dance, _they were so fucking mad for each other_, but it was anything but easy, and it was an apology of sorts, giving him that- that _insurance_, Crowley could take Aziraphale’s words of Not Quite Rejection (But Not Quite A Promise, Either), he could take that _and_ the flask, and be gone forever, into eternity, if he so chose to do.

And he could. He really could. He could travel the world, again. Perhaps in a different order of countries and wonders this time, or he could visit his most beloved stars, or he could just go and settle down and play a human for a few decades, hopping from place to place, until people would start to notice he wasn’t aging. He could Resent the angel in a spectacular fit for putting him through all of it – but that would not be fair because Crowley didn’t _let_ things happen to him, he wasn’t a victim, wasn’t a martyr, he wasn’t an innocent onlooker or a bystander, he coaxed Aziraphale into temptation and sin as much as Aziraphale beckoned him towards the light, and just as often they did the opposite to each other as well, so pretending he was the wronged party in all this would be just – untrue, and laughable.

And Crowley knew himself.

He’d wait another thousand years with a _yes_ ready on his tongue for when the angel, _his_ angel – he’ll go back to calling him _his_ in his own head _because that shit gave him life, okay_ – would work through his own defences and fences and misgivings and inhibitions, and Crowley would have a white and red checkered blanket ready, just in case, from this day on, the only non-black piece of fabric in his apartment, waiting and letting moths feed off of it, until he could wrap Aziraphale, _his_ Aziraphale in it and crack open the jam jar.

The strawberry one.

**I Understand You Need a Nanny (The following Decades until Armageddon)**

They slipped so many times.

Just like Crowley knew they would. Or, he knew _he_ would, his body always feral and aflame around Aziraphale, difficult to control and pacify – not impossible, but it took a considerable amount of energy to douse the fire going in him, to calm himself down and focus, because what changed _now_ was they saw each other All The Damn Time, a sporadic encounter became an annual occurrence became a monthly meeting became a weekly session, sometimes even more common than that, and Crowley was going mental from so much Exposure, but fuck it if it wasn’t the best forty years of his life, and what was both surprising and absolutely exhilarating was the fact that half of those slips, or lapses or missteps or whatever you want to call them (all _Crowley_ could call them was Bloody Miracles), were instigated by none other than Aziraphale himself.

As if neither of them could quite keep away.

Half the time that they ended up embracing, lips locked, hands frantically grabbing for purchase, squeezing, rubbing, flexing, stroking, _half_ of all of that was Aziraphale’s Fault.

His Doing.

Crime. Blessing. Trespass. Gift. Damnation. Perfection. Completion.

The angel would always apologize after, or look guilty, or promise it won’t happen again, but all it did was make Crowley giddy as a fucking unicorn (moron) on a merry-go-round, carnival music included, because he knew it will happen again, he knew, it was only a matter of time when one of them would need it, _need it so badly_ they would actually hotly whisper those exact words while biting down on necks, hands pushing at clothes, one of them seeking the other one out, and drag him, and pin him, and push him, and claim him, unholy and hallowed at once, and if that was all he could have for a while, or for the rest of his life, _he will bloody take it_, he will take anything Aziraphale was willing to offer before retreating to his turtle shell again for a while before resurfacing.

And then the mad dance would begin again.

There were some moments Crowley could never forget, burning themselves onto his retinas, searing flashes of events being branded into his temporal lobe, hell, he didn’t even need the blasted heart to live and yet he could feel it swell up sometimes. One of his favourite memories was not even related to any kind of a sexual activity, and wasn’t that a fucking shocker, actually?

They were drunk, good Lord, they had been _so_ drunk, and Crowley could tell where it was going because alcohol did lower people’s exhibitions, an angel and a demon didn’t stand a chance either, and their standard piss-ups usually ended with desperate dry-humping against the bookshelves or on the couch, but this time they were so preoccupied with the whole Antichrist thing they decided to sober up, which was mildly disappointing, but then – _but then_ Crowley blurted the bit about them being Godfathers, _co-_Godfathers, not just in general but to the same fucking child, never mind that it was the Antichrist, and Aziraphale’s face, it it it-

Aziraphale’s smile. The light. The softness. The fucking _tenderness_ when he contemplated raising a child with Crowley, how doubt suddenly gave way to elation, to excitement, to bloody undulated _happiness_, how Hereditary Enemies became Parents in the angel’s head, Crowley could have sworn he heard the _click_ when it happened for Aziraphale, how his eyes glittered when he fixed them on Crowley, and Crowley for a moment wondered if he did sober up at all, and he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t fucking help himself, all he wanted in that damn moment was to take care of another creature with this impossible angel, to love it and teach it and cherish it, and when they’d put it to bed he would go and love and cherish Aziraphale into the early hours of the morning.

Another devastatingly memorable thing was posing as the Gardener and the Nanny, and it has been difficult for one reason, and one reason only. (It wasn’t the stockings, Crowley had rather enjoyed those, in his years of service trying on different types, feeling _wickedly _validated whenever he wore fishnets and Aziraphale-as-Brother-Francis noticed and then promptly walked into trees and fences all the damn time.) And it wasn’t Aziraphale’s ridiculous Giant Dentures disguise he wore to look half man half _mole_ while on the job, no. It was difficult because for all those years, all six of them, they would see each other every single day, working in the same household, sometimes ridiculous hours, sometimes when Crowley had put Warlock to bed he could have sworn he felt the angel’s presence but found no one upon turning around, or sometimes he’d have a few minutes to himself so he’d pop down to the gardens – not to school Aziraphale about the flowers but to just sit on the bench with him and recount the events of the day, and sometimes the mere proximity and domesticity was just as intoxicating as their heated fumbles in the pantry (or the staircase, or the guest bedroom, or the study, or the garage, or, hell, even the master bedroom that one time) have been.

Possibly one of his favourite memories from their Godfathers Days had been of one hot, summer’s day, Warlock napping in the garden in a hammock, Crowley rocking him to sleep and smiling to himself, only to lift his gaze and see Aziraphale watching with a raw, open expression of awareness and affection. Following each other into the nearby tools shed had been the most logical thing to do, the most natural, the most _organic_ consequence, Aziraphale grabbing his wrist and planting kisses into his palm – like a gardener lovingly planting seeds – as soon as Crowley walked through the wonky, creaky door. The summer heat was making them soft around the edges, forgetting themselves, it was making them drowsy, the light filtering through the dirty windows had been just the _loveliest_ kind of yellow, specks of dust and pollen lazily curling through the sunbeams, and the air inside was a bit too warm, too stuffy, it smelled of roots and soil and mild fertilizers, but Crowley could still smell Aziraphale over all of it, always, always, _always_. Kisses that followed were slow and sloppy and languid, dragging out the sighs and touches, and Crowley would be quite happy to discorporate then and there, it was fine, it was completely fine, he was happy and his angel was holding him, but then his angel suddenly dropped on all fours and found his way under Crowley’s strict black pencil skirt, and how in Satan’s name did he do _that_ because it wasn’t even that stretchy, but oh, oh fuck, oh _fuck_, Aziraphale wasn’t messing around this time, he pulled away his knickers and just swallowed his cock down whole, and Crowley nearly brought the shed down with his trembling and choked-back moans of Aziraphale’s name and silent confessions of love.

It was a true miracle nobody had walked in on them that day. Or the next time when Crowley returned the favour, wondering why the demons thought that corrupting a human soul for their master was their purpose in life. Not if they could have an angel spread in an armchair in front of them, pink skin flushed, gaping mouth half-concealed by a hand, clothes open and exposing the riches, their whole body opening and closing around a silent cry of pleasure.

Another time Crowley was pretty sure that the Fate really was a part of some Grand Design and that the God hasn’t forgotten him, not really, with Her inexplicable ways of torturing him – this must have been deliberate, he would never believe a soul if they said this was a fucking coincidence, no, the afflicted agony was in Full Force when he and the angel had actually swapped bodies to help each other out.

To survive.

But still.

You don’t understand.

_They_ _swapped bodies_.

He had Aziraphale’s body all to himself, and he has _promised_ himself he won’t betray Aziraphale’s trust, he had work to do, he had serious work to do, a crucial and pressing matter, and yet the very first moment he was alone all he wanted to do was strip naked in front of a mirror and go _explore_. The fact that Aziraphale was, technically_, _inside_ him_ at that very moment did nothing to kerb his blinding need, the insatiable appetite, wondering what that would have been like, wanting it, imagining it, because while their little spells of needing each other involved a great deal of touching and partial nudity, something like _that_ has never happened, because, see, you can kind of, sort of, semi-unintentionally kiss someone senseless or even get someone’s dick in your mouth, but what you can’t get away with is _fuck someone and call it a bloody accident,_ no matter how hard you’d both pretend that was exactly what had happened.

Warlock’s eleventh birthday party was another occurrence when Crowley tried to hold back, and failed miserably, but he decided not to feel too guilty about it in the aftermath because Aziraphale had failed just as spectacularly. He wished he knew what it was that drew the angel to him, it was purely selfish, he just wanted to _know_, he could list about one thousand (_six_ thousand) reasons why Aziraphale for _him_, but he had no fucking idea why _Crowley for Aziraphale_, but that day Crowley didn’t expect to be so fucking needy, awaiting the beginning of the end of the world, awaiting the hell hound, watching Aziraphale be just about the worst fake ass magician in the history of fake ass magicians. But then _cake_ started to fly, and they hid in the car, and they realized they Godfathered the wrong boy, and things have never really been as bad as they have in that actual moment.

Their plan of reverting the Armageddon collapsed and fizzled and flopped, it didn’t crash with a bang but with a hiccup, and if that was the mark, the cornerstone, the _neon sign_ of Everything Going To Absolute Shit, Crowley couldn’t have his angel face it with those stupid drawn-on moustaches. So he reached over, cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks and wiping the black ink away with his thumbs. Aziraphale’s breath hitched, despite literally The Worst News Ever he trembled, and leaned into the touch, and it could have been scary and maybe they were supposed to just stare at each other in horror, maybe _that_ was the Plan, but the angel was earlier target practice for some impromptu cake throwing, and the next thing Crowley knew he was in Aziraphale’s lap (nobody has magicked away the seats this time), _licking_ the icing and cream off of his face, Aziraphale already undoing both of their clothes and taking their cocks in his grip, stroking in a mad, clumsy rhythm to make them feel more alive than they had any reason or right to be.

For now, all of this was enough because it had to be enough, Crowley was stupid from Aziraphale hardly keeping himself in check when he wanted him, and he took it all, he revelled in it, he was possessive and jealous and devoted and in love, _so_ bloody in love it was a constant ache, reminding himself he could still only call Aziraphale _his_ angel in his head and not out loud, never out loud, reminding himself that while he suspected Aziraphale was feeling more and more deeply, perhaps even on par to Crowley’s own chasm of affection, catching it sometimes in his eyes when the angel wasn’t careful, he knew it still might never happen. Not in the way he wanted.

He really was a lousy demon. Ever hopeful, and impossibly patient, he had that checkered blanket in his apartment anyway. Just in case. If they managed to actually save the world despite the Antichrist blunder, then Eternity was a long time to wait, and Crowley thought he was ready.

**You Could Stay At Mine… If You’d Like (Hours after “Armageddon”)**

What a day.

Honestly, what a _life_.

Crowley sat down at the foot of his bed, right on the edge with the wooden frame digging into his thighs, as if allowing himself more comfort would somehow negate all the monumental, fateful events from earlier in the day. He swiped a hand over his face, knocking the shades off in the process and then leaving them wherever they fell, lost in the duvet.

He was so tired.

He was so fucking tired, he shouldn’t feel the weight of his body, the kink in his right shoulder, the ache in his bones, his soul scraped raw and exposed. Armageddon has been a rollercoaster that far, _far_ surpassed any one given thing, morphing into one giant mess of horror and heartbreak and delight and hope, End of Everything as he knew it, but it was over now, right, _right_, it was over and he could relax.

He _should_ relax, even if he wasn’t the most deserving person, creature, being, whatever, in the world or the unsung – or sung – hero of this story, he knew the world will be just fine, he should let go for one night and rest and sleep and mend and knot together whatever of himself he’s lost or found and rearranged in the last couple of days. The night was dark and the stars were out, they were _still_ out, the stars he loved so dearly have prevailed – it truly was a miracle, his greatest creation was preserved, his greatest creation was still there for people of the Earth to look at and get inspired by, and if that was the only thing of his that survived the night, himself included, he would still be glad. Crowley learned one very important lesson that evening: If a person ever faces down the end of the world and survives it, a lot of foolishness and selfishness kind of dissipates and dissolves in a general feel of _Oh, thank fuck, _and for a while, absolutely nothing else matters.

“Crowley.”

And yet he brought the angel back with him.

For Aziraphale, he would have given up even the stars.

Of _course_ he brought him back, he brought him _home_, and even if Aziraphale was never okay with sharing this home or calling it such, Crowley would let it be and let it slide and just marvel at the fact that Aziraphale, just like him, was given another – or new or different or bigger or more important or whatever – chance at this, at his existence, at plotting the course anew, and Crowley would make sure it would be the best and greatest one yet.

Sighing, Crowley looked up, feeling like a fixed point in time, with both fight and flight leaving him. There wasn’t much left of either in him to begin with, honestly, using up all of his bravery and bravado at the grand Ending, but he probably still had a little bit of nerves left for some _nice freaking out_ back here, at home, at the _true_ End – or Beginning – of all things.

Aziraphale paused between the bedroom door, his hand on the doorknob, fingers absent-mindedly tracing the round metal.

Crowley followed the movement transfixed, hypnotized by the perpetual and cyclical journey, finding he envied the doorknob a whole lot right now. He wondered whether the angel was going to stay here or leave, and suddenly his whole focus shifted from observing those nimble, pale fingers in their present motion to anticipating their next move.

Wondering which side of the door they will decide to close.

“Angel-”

“No, shut up, this is my turn.”

Aziraphale let go of the door and Crowley held his breath, but the door was left ajar, two possibilities, two realities still present, not answering any of Crowley’s most pressing questions. Aziraphale was flexing his hands by his sides, opening and closing them into fists, and Crowley adored these little shifts, the traits of his character, the minute, idly-executed gestures his angel wasn’t even aware of but that Crowley had catalogued with _sick_ precision. He could read him so well, Aziraphale was already making a speech in his head, the small fidgets wracking his body, the cogs in his head turning, he puffed up like some cockatiel before saying something super crucial but no less lovely for all its pompousness, something he believed in and was sure of, something he would _stand by._ This could go either way, really, with the door still open and Aziraphale’s face so carefully neutral – and Aziraphale had put just enough time and alcohol between himself and the End of the World in the past few hours that he undoubtedly drew Conclusions, and whatever these conclusions were, they were right and final and real and Crowley knew it. Aziraphale knew it.

Crowley knew Aziraphale knew Crowley knew.

Christ Almighty, thinking was a tad difficult when you were this exhausted and chafed open and in love.

Crowley nodded in silence. _Go for it, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and of My Heart._

“I shouldn’t tell you to shut up, actually. Apologies, my dear. I can’t tell you what to do, I shouldn’t, even if I sometimes want to. For your own sake. But even when I do, I don’t, not really, see, because it’s always a bit of a guess what you’re going to do, even when I am so sure I am anticipating the correct course you go left instead of right, and it makes you who you are, and it keeps me on my toes, and this is exactly what I told Gabriel and everyone else in Heaven once when I talked about you, actually.”

Crowley breathed out a tiny chuckle despite himself.

_You talked about me in Heaven, huh? Bet they hated that._

“I could control almost anyone down here. So many things. So many beings, really. Even other angels Upstairs. But even if I wanted to control you, which I don’t, I couldn’t, I hold no sway over you, and this is so important to me, Crowley. _You_ are _so_ important to me.”

“Azir-”

“No, please. Please let me speak. I need to finish this, I need to be brave like you were brave today, not _just_ today, you did 6000 years of being nothing _but_ brave – no, don’t make that face, you’re not allowed to disregard the good things I say to you tonight. Not ever, really, but humour me tonight, please. I can’t allow distractions to prevent me from saying things I should have said a long, long time ago. I am quite a foolish angel, you know.”

Crowley sat up straighter, wanting to reach for the angel so badly it was beginning to ache. Everywhere.

“For some reason I always threw around words of you being nice and having goodness inside you, I was so brazen and pushy, for some reason I held it above you as if I had all the right in the world to say these things about you, but not allow you to do the same back to me. All those times you hinted at me having a bit of wickedness, or catching me at omitting the truth, all those times I got mad at you as if being mad at you meant I wasn’t actually guilty of all those things. I always thought we were equals, but I am not entirely sure I actually treated you as such. I should have allowed you to expose my less-than-ideal traits in the same way I kept throwing the goodness in _your_ face. Just by being an angel, I considered myself worthy and entitled of being judgmental. And that wasn’t okay.”

Crowley’s throat was tight. And painful. He had no idea how to react to all this honesty, Aziraphale clearly trying to prove a point Crowley himself hasn’t understood yet. (And, fuck, he supposed after six millennia of bottling shit up, they really did have a lot to talk about?)

“I think I defended Heaven so blindly because I was afraid if I wouldn’t, you’d prove me wrong, you’d win – not even Hell, just, just _you_, you would be right and then where would that leave me? I’d have to wave the white flag, admit how flawed Heaven was, admit that no, angels weren’t by default the purest, the spotless, the correct, the moral winners, we’re not any more equipped for any of this than demons are, Crowley, there are clearly nuances in all of us and I didn’t want to admit to that because admitting would have meant I was flawed myself, despite being told all my damn existence that I was perfect.”

_But you are. To me, you are._

Aziraphale took a step forward, one of his hands coming up, gesturing at so many things at once Crowley almost felt motion sickness coming up. It was hard, still keeping quiet and preventing himself from either imploding or exploding, the inward or outward burst for the same reason, and the reason was standing right in front of him; Aziraphale was so close to that fucking point he was trying to make because he was fumbling again, fidgeting and babbling, and Crowley _drank it all in _because it was, _it really was_, from that first fucking moment in Eden, his favourite thing in the universe.

Something so utterly hopeful stalked across the angel’s face that it made Crowley want to touch that expression, it was so innocently sweet, he wanted to tell him it was all right, that whatever was on his mind was all right, Crowley wanted to swear to him he will never again expect a single thing from him, or demand or need or wait for, but he would take all of it like a mad man who could grip and embrace his beloved craziness.

“For over six thousand years I tried to convince myself I was all that I was supposed to be, and that all other angels were, too, and I didn’t want to see how bad and wrong and misguided and mistaken some were, and when I finally saw it I didn’t want to _acknowledge_ it, ignoring it was so much easier, Crowley. If I could just make myself ignore it I could also ignore the fact that there was a demon out there, a demon who was supposed to be all bad all dark all wrong all _evil_, a demon who was supposed to supplant every good thing with something horrific, a demon who put us all to fucking _shame_,”

Crowley audibly gasped at hearing Aziraphale curse, only ever witnessing it in a setting that involved some sort of mouth-watering pleasure and nudity, attesting to the angel’s conviction of uttered words,

“because this demon, my dear, this demon has a far, far bigger heart than any _angel_ I have ever met.”

He tried to swallow down the heartbeats that leapt up into his mouth, but the throat just wasn’t working anymore. Aziraphale looked lost and found at the same time, breathing fast, his eyes having a really shiny quality to them, like candlelight reflecting off a frozen pond, like double-glazed windows, and then he, very deliberately and very purposefully, walked towards the bed, _towards Crowley_, dropping to his knees in front of him.

_What are you doing, Angel?_

Aziraphale’s voice shook.

“I don’t know if this means that we are both locked out of our respective realms now, if we could ever even go back, if they’ll be around again or if they already crossed our names off the lists. Honestly, and this feels so very liberating to say I might discorporate anyway, _I don’t really care anymore_. You said we were on our own side now, and I have never heard nor believed a simpler truth. A more _beautiful_ truth. I don’t care if my wings go from white to black, or if yours turn white, or if both our pairs get grey, or even if I lose them completely… I don’t know how you would feel about that, but Crowley, black wings, white wings, no wings, even if they strip all of that away from you, _I love you_, I have loved you for so long I can’t even say when it happened and when it began, I can’t disentangle my existence from yours nor would I want to, so even if the Ineffable Plan ends up like one of your supernovas, even if that was the _actual_ plan all along, I do so hope that I would get to hold your hand when the final blast comes for us.”

_Fuck._

_Fuuuuuuuuuuck._

A pained, nonsensical little sound escaped Crowley’s lips, and he tried to reel it in, he did, but how could he not react when somebody he adored more than his own existence threw all that at him? He fell off the bed, the same way he fell from Heaven, sliding off with his own knees hitting the floor, bumping into Aziraphale’s.

“_Angel_,” he gasped, and shivered, and reached for him.

Their hands met half-way, in the middle, fingers twisting and interlocking, it should be painful how they tried to merge them and lace them together, their foreheads following the same idea of falling towards the gravity centre, knocking together like two opposite-charged magnets.

_Unable to help themselves._

“No, Crowley, I am not done yet,” Aziraphale squeaked, and there it was, that squeak, that fucking squeak Crowley would once again endure the last 6000 years for to hear it _one more time_. “I can’t be forgiven this easily.”

“Aziraphale.”

_There is nothing to forgive._

“You thought you lost me, and I was so busy trying to still convince myself it was for the better that I didn’t say what I should have. I didn’t want to give merit to your feelings, I heard how upset you were when I finally managed to get a hold of you and talk to you, you were hurting and you sounded so devastatingly beautiful, all open and tender, and I cannot imagine how you must have felt, thinking I was gone forever, because I am trying to put myself in your shoes, and, and _Crowley_, if that was _you_ disappearing out of existence I would have perished, but before I would have perished I would have raged war and terror onto Hell and Heaven and wouldn’t stop until nothing was left. I had been so adamant in fighting for the _world_, but I realized I would have destroyed everything but your stars if I lost _you_. And yet I was afraid to acknowledge your own pain and my own emotions, and even if I am no longer shying away from it all now, I can’t in my right mind still assume you feel the same. That you’ve waited. I have made you wait for so long, too long, _who the fuck did I think I was_, making you wait all this time?”

Crowley had no idea who started crying first, their fingers still a mess of digits, not letting go, their faces pressed together with salt and love, cheeks tacky in that uncomfortable way from the corrosiveness of tears, and he couldn’t move, he didn’t dare move because what if this wasn’t real, he wouldn’t move but he could still _speak_.

(Even if it did sound more like wet croaking instead.)

“If you think just for a second that I’m going to let all this self-deprecation slide, you are so fucking wrong.”

Aziraphale became very still.

“I meant everything I said, Crowley, including that I don’t expect anything in return.”

“For fuck’s sake, angel, I’m supposed to be the bigger moron here. Find your own niche.”

“What-”

Crowley raised his hand, trying to hold up his fingers as he breathlessly sped through his response, but because neither of them wanted to let go, the listing looked really, _really_ dumb, but that’s what they were in their core, their essence, their atoms – they were _dumb_, on their own and for each other, so this was fitting in the end, too.

“_No_, your wings will stay white. And mine will stay black. And I’d love you with or without them, too. _Yes_, believing I lost you in the fire hurt more than anything I have ever experienced, including being cast out of Heaven and branded by Hell. _Three_, I may have created the stars before we met, angel, but if I could do it again, I would name all of them after you. And, _yes_, if we are allowed to throw ourselves into a dying star at the end of all things, I will be kissing you before everything gets blown to dust.”

Crowley knew he’ll get self-conscious and sheepish about all this sobbing later, trying to preserve _some_ kind of reputation here, but right now he couldn’t care, they were still crying and they were now trembling as if the ground would open up again underneath them, this time for good. He was worn out and elated at the same time, and he was a bit at a loss right now, but what he hasn’t expected, not in a million bloody years, he would bet another Armageddon on it, _that’s_ how unexpected this was, was for Aziraphale to snap his fingers against Crowley’s and miracle their clothes away.

_All of them._

He looked down, and back up.

“Um.”

Aziraphale suddenly giggled through tears, giggled and snorted and then hiccupped, and fucking hell if it wasn’t the single greatest thing in Crowley’s existence, to witness this.

“I just wanted to feel like there really wasn’t anything between us anymore,” Aziraphale rasped through a watery chuckle, still grinning, his face wet with tears, his chest heaving with all the emotions and admissions being thrown about.

Crowley groaned.

“This is so cheesy I might vomit but fuck I _agree_.”

They ended up laughing, clutching at each other and laughing, naked and tired and accomplished, and at one point, who knows how soon or long after, they sobered up just enough to regard each other with bright, open eyes, their features calm and gentle, hands finally placated enough to tentatively let go but still touching, touching faces and shoulders, meeting again in the small space in the middle for fingertips fleetingly kissing fingertips, fingers parting again to slide lovingly across cheeks and noses, tickle at lips and ears while their breathing slowed down enough for them to realize the world really hadn’t ended.

“Looking your fill, demon?”

The colossal, unmistakeable affection behind the last word almost undid Crowley on the spot, and he would have fake-gasped at the loving tone if he hadn’t felt a warm flush creeping up.

“Um. Yeah. _Looking_. It’s not that I don’t know your body by now, but. The swap. The day we swapped bodies-”

And then the shocking, uncharacteristic shyness got the better of him, and Aziraphale watched him stumble and blush with something akin to sunrise in his eyes.

“Crowley.”

“ItriednottolookI_swear_.”

Aziraphale chuffed out a cascade of laughter, bowing his head, lifting his glittering eyes only a moment later. Not an ounce of the usual, expected stuttering in him,

“I may have had a proper peek myself when I was in yours.”

Holy water had _nothing_ on this creature, Crowley thought desperately, closing his eyes and failing at trying not to just grin and grin back at the angel.

He pulled them up and over the edge of the bed, both of them climbing slowly towards the pillows, both so worn out they felt stretched thinner than the magnetosphere around their beloved Earth. They collapsed wordlessly, but with relieved, happy groans, heads coming to rest on the same pillow, Aziraphale’s nose pressed against the nape of Crowley’s neck, spooning him and sheltering him, their bodies slotting together as if they were never meant to be apart.

What simultaneously felt like a few hours or days later, a few minutes or many weeks, but definitely still in the night, Crowley jolted awake, a desperate start of _something_ waking him up. It felt like an ache from the old bone that hasn’t set properly, a haunting pain of similar past experiences, a bitter, heavy, dark substance of anguish dropping through his stomach.

_The bed was empty. _

The angel was gone.

The door clicked shut.

“Oh, did I wake you?”

The angel wasn’t gone?

_Stop being such a drama queen, you fucking moron._

Crowley dumbly blinked at the picture in front of him. And begged his stupid heart to please stop panicking, to go back to normal speed, to please not give out now, _please_. This was different, this was new, for the first time in his life Aziraphale hasn’t left, and he was here, _still here_, he had his back to Crowley, his arms pushing the bedroom door closed_ and staying on the right side of it_.

And then Aziraphale turned around and headed back to bed, and, well, the view had improved _significantly_.

The mattress behind Crowley dipped again, Aziraphale sliding back against him with such ease and comfort it caused Crowley’s heart to swell up several sizes.

“Did I wake you,” Aziraphale murmured against his ear, repeating his worry from moments before.

“No, I. I don’t know. I woke up but you’re here so it’s okay.”

Crowley gasped and pushed needily into the touch, not expecting gentle fingers tenderly swiping his hair off his forehead.

“I went to close the door. I think there was a slight draft.”

He would never be able to explain in non-madman terms why that made him smile like a lunatic, and he was glad the angel didn’t ask. Perhaps he didn’t have to, and that was the beauty of it on its own.

“S’okay. You can do what you want with them. All my doors are your doors.”

“I tried getting a blanket, in case closing the door wouldn’t help, but all I found was a thin red and white throw that looked like it had never been used. So I left it there lest you have a reason for its pristine condition.”

_Ah._

“Umhm.”

“I was just curious, my dear. It piqued my interest, being the only colourful thing in your place.”

“_Sourpicnicblanket_.”

Aziraphale, now kissing his earlobe, paused.

“What was that?”

“Mmmh. I said. The blanket. For the ground. Our ground. And the cakes. Youcan’thaveapicnicwithoutablanket.”

Aziraphale went still, and then hummed happily, sliding an arm around his middle.

“You remembered my picnic invitation?”

“Angel, I have been _waiting_ to have that picnic since the night you asked.”

Crowley yawned like a crocodile around his words, deciding to fuck it and throw caution to the wind, skittish angels or not, since it looked like Aziraphale really wasn’t leaving.

Aziraphale smirked at him.

“My dearest, your pillow talk is showing.”

“S’not pillow talk if we haven’t had sex, angel.”

“Pre-pillow talk, then,” Aziraphale rasped, his voice suddenly dark and husky, sending an electric shock down Crowley’s spine.

Angel’s lips were on his, pushing against him and into him as if he tried to once again say everything he’s said earlier in the evening, but with touch instead of words, just to make sure Crowley really believed him. Crowley settled on his back, the sheets warm and soft against his skin, marvelling at how they have never actually kissed naked in bed before, how tonight was a first of so many things, including the end of the world and starting anew, with his angel falling between his thighs.

“This world has caused too much grievance to a demon with the heart of gold, and I need to keep you safe,” Aziraphale whispered between the kisses, and Crowley blinked a new wave of tears away because now was _not_ the time, he’s cried enough, damn it, now he wanted to enjoy his angel the way he hadn’t in so long, the way he needed to keep going, the way he needed since they met.

“If you’re so hell-bent on calling me nice then I will have to insist you have your wicked way with me, Mr Angel,” Crowley murmured hotly against Aziraphale’s ear, maybe feeling daring and punctuating his words with his tongue, noting the delicious shiver that went through Aziraphale – but because Aziraphale was planted firmly on top of him, naked and warm, they shivered together instead.

Aziraphale reached down to Crowley’s hips, his hands sliding towards the knees, lovingly slipping to the underside and hooking the legs around his waist. Crowley obediently locked his ankles behind the angel’s back, nearly going blind from so much skin on skin. Everything tonight was unprecedented: Aziraphale’s survival, Aziraphale’s confession, Aziraphale staying, Aziraphale loving him.

Aziraphale’s diamond-hard cock against his.

And Lord, but right now, that one was Crowley’s favourite.

They got caught in a give and take rhythm, they got caught in it some 6 thousand years ago, always circling each other, but Crowley’s legs encircling Aziraphale took everything a notch higher, and Crowley would be perfectly content to never let go – but then, _appearances_, and posing as humans, and at some point his angel would become peckish, and Crowley would become restless, wanting to go for a ride in the Bentley, or his angel would want to retire for the night with a book, and Crowley would want to sit across from him and pretend he wasn’t staring at him, so at some point he figured he _will_ extricate himself from this maddening embrace, but it will be hours before he’ll _have_ to, and even when he does, he’ll be able to do it again whenever he wanted, and that made him so happy he would punch himself in the face if he hadn’t felt so raw and needy and loved and _mushy_ in this very moment.

He dug his nails into Aziraphale’s back, smirking at the wet moan that echoed around them, and then Aziraphale looked at him so tenderly, his soft smile lighting up the dark bedroom, he stopped the slow roll of his hips, and Crowley had to bite the inside of his cheek at the way he was smiling back, his demonic reputation in _utter shambles_, and he expected another cheesy love declaration that will have him want the Armageddon back – but then Aziraphale’s eyes went from Innocence to Utter Mischief, and he rasped in a voice that _dripped_ filth all over the bed,

“Can I fuck you?”

And Crowley’s eyes rolled back into his skull.

So far back, in fact, that they probably went around several times by now, like some get-three-of-the-same-fruit prize vending machine.

His mouth opened into a breathless moan, he wished he had the capacity to whisper a sultry _yesss_, dragging out the s in his snake-like manor, but it was really more of a dumb _uh huh? _ instead, and then Aziraphale resumed the gentle thrusting, pushing, rolling, like the tide receding and returning, until they were both stupid from it. They parted for just long enough for the angel to work him open, to tease him and stretch him, to pause before continuing and adding more fingers because it felt so freaking intimate they both needed a moment to _compose_ themselves, even if the act itself was meant to do the complete opposite. The legs came back up around the back, and hips returned to their push and pull, the incessant rock and roll, feeling even more private, devoted, _profound_, more close, more something, bringing an angel and a demon impossibly closer, a big middle finger to Heaven and Hell, and it was lucky Crowley didn’t need to breathe because he was pretty sure he couldn’t, _an angel was claiming him as his own_, for himself, for all realms, for all eternity.

(Eternity that had both Sondheim _and_ the Sound of Music.)

Aziraphale suddenly stopped and hitched a breath, the abrupt pause causing the sweat that gathered above his brows to fall in droplets and land on Crowley’s face, mixing with his own.

Aziraphale’s face clearly spelled he has just remembered something he forgot to mention earlier but will say now if it _kills_ him.

“Oh, Angel, _really_? Now?”

“My dear, this is important.”

“Please tell me you won’t run off to bless a village up north or something-”

“And leave _this_?”

Aziraphale canted his hips forward, seated so deeply in Crowley it made both of them shut up for a moment.

“_Nnnngh_. At least you have your priorities set straight.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to tell you that for all my love for Heaven, they have said something unforgivable, which made me realize they could never be my home again.”

Both of Crowley’s arms left Aziraphale’s back, sliding up and gripping the angel’s shoulders. He felt like he needed to ground himself for this, whatever it was.

“Archangels said demons aren’t capable of love, and even if that may be true for most demons, _your_ love for the world and animals and people and _me_ is the brightest thing I have ever witnessed, the face of the almighty included, so Heaven is inherently wrong, and you are inherently _everything_.”

Crowley was right. If he wasn’t holding onto Aziraphale he might spin out of focus and control and into another dimension. He realized he didn’t think it was possible, but in the next moment, when Angel spoke again, he was falling for Aziraphale still – more – harder – _desperately_.

“Oh, Crowley, this is so good. Tomorrow, we have to switch.”

Crowley tried to nod, mental images of reversed roles making his brain screech to a stop, but nothing about his body was under his control anymore. He was shaking, uncontrollably so, Aziraphale above him far too angelic for the sinful performance he was in charge of, how his body moved, how his hips stuttered, the thrusts he was making, but his face was slack, slack in pleasure and devotion, and blast it but the angel was making him want to say stupid, important things back. Crowley was fine with thinking them, but now he wanted to _say_ them, and, Jesus shit, they really were where the universe met in the middle: an angel with a wicked pelvic thrust, and a demon babbling about emotions.

“Angel, I will buy you a new book every Wednes-”

“Two.”

“Two Wednesdays?” _What_?

Aziraphale chuckled, breathless and gasping.

“Two _books_, you silly serpent.”

“Oh.”

“You were saying?”

“And I will let you practice your magic tricks for stupid parties on me, and I will keep drawing those moustaches on your face so you can pretend you’re a great magician, and I will learn how to dance Gavotte for you and I will never resent another duck for having all your attention ever again, but you are _killing_ me here.”

Aziraphale looked like he was suspended and torn between continuing to fuck both their brains out or to maybe sob at Crowley instead, but then he secured Crowley’s legs around himself tighter and heightened his own grip, quickening the pace, balancing on his own knees and driving into Crowley to make the bed move back and forth, bending down to kiss him feverishly and _madly_, and while both of them were finally coming in a cacophony of gasps and moans and each other’s names, focus and foundation and their ethereal cores somewhere above their corporeal bodies, Crowley heard the furniture around them shaking and moving, the windows rattling, and one of the plant pots outside the bedroom _bursting_.

_Fuck_.

He was possessed by the unimaginable light of an angel while the angel in question took a bit of his demonic stardust soul for himself.

Crowley had once again a hard time pretending He Was Demon of Badass as he wondered if God’s Ineffable Plan wasn’t perhaps all about love all along, making one hopeless moron happy against all odds.

“_My angel_.”

“Mmm, yes, my dear?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

_Just wanted to finally say it out loud._

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, listen. As a woman with a degree in English lit, I am fully aware of Romeo and Juliet being published before Hamlet. But it just fits so well. So I am claiming ignorance for the sake of artistic freedom. :D


End file.
